


The Signs of a Threeway

by mycake



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Mary, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jock Straps, Kissing, M/M, Medical Examination, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Porn With Plot, Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought she would be the last person on Earth that I’d have to convince I was not gay"</p>
<p>John Watson starts to notice that his soon-to-be wife, Mary, is a little more than interested in Sherlock Holmes. John is apprehensive at first but slowly he starts to ease up to the idea that they could use a little more excitement in the bedroom. Of course, things don't turn out how he expected. Then again, when do they ever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It has been years since the incident, of which I’m only now just writing about, took place and yet I’m still apprehensive about writing about _it_. For the longest time I worried that if I wrote about ‘it’, even as a private post or scratched out on a scrap piece of paper, maybe on the back of a paper bag, Sherlock might get his hands on it, as he does with all of my wordly possessions, and be offended or worse: he may leave again.

I suppose it all started from the beginning, as most stories do. Well I guess not that far back in the beginning. Well, let’s start where Sherlock comes in, or rather _back in_ , I should say. Sorry, it’s all a bit confusing. That is to say, unless you already know the story. His story. Sherlock... that is.

Let me start again. Sherlock was dead and then he wasn’t. He came back, and not in any normal sort of way, not that there is a normal way to come back from the dead. Sherlock, and I still can’t figure out why in God’s name he did this, came back dressed as a French waiter, accent and all, and crashed my dinner-date with Mary. Not just any dinner-date, _no_. It had to be the night I was going to propose.

Well to make a short story long, he came crashing into my life once more and I acted how any normal human-being would: I chinned the man. I ended up leaving with my soon-to-be fiancée and in the taxi, I can still remember it to this day, she said to me, “I like him.”

Red flag!

That should have been my first sign. I should have put an end to it right then and there, nipped it in the bud. End of story.

Oh but no. Then she started reading my blog. And not like as an interest or, “ _Hey, I’ve got nothing better to do, might as well pick up my boyfriend’s blog, give it a read, see if I like it.”_

No.

That woman scoured my blog like it was _50 Shades of Grey_. She read into everything like it was pure pornography. I even caught her sneaking her hand down the front of her pants a few times while reading it. TMI, I know, but it gets worse.

Then all these ideas started popping into her head: wild sex fantasies; some of them involving Sherlock and I.

I know, right?

I knew when she was thinking about us together because she’d bite her bottom lip and blush and pretend to be all coy and cute, like she thought I didn’t have a clue what was going on in that head of hers.

I thought she would be the last person on Earth that I’d have to convince I was not gay, but there you have it.

“You know who we should invite out to dinner?” she asked me one afternoon over tea.

“Erm,” I thought to myself, I knew it was Sherlock, but I thought I’d toy with her a bit. “Mrs Hudson?” I ventured.

“No,” her voice was low and tantalizing. She was quite obviously thinking about something other than dinner.

“Greg?” I asked, matching her sultry tone.

“No.”

Things were starting to heat up. She started playing with her lower lip, running her fingertips over it softly. She had a smile on that would rival the Cheshire Cat. I was stupefied by her charm and most likely had a dopey grin plastered on my face. I chuckled low and throatily like a perverted teenager.

“Well, who then?” I asked dumbly.

“You know who,” she teased.

She stretched her leg out under the table and when her ankle met mine I made a sound that could only be described as, “Duh,” followed by, “I dunno. Sherlock Holmes?” We both giggled like school girls.

Looking back on it, it was a shameful moment: me a grown man, acting so stupid, all because of a little flirting across the table.

“Why don’t you ask him?” she asked, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

“He’ll say no,” I said.

“You haven’t asked,” she shrugged.

“Because I know his answer.”

Now one thing I’ll say about women: they have the mentality of a feral cat in heat. One moment they’re rubbing up against you, keen on having at it, the next, they’re clawing your eyes out and trying to tear your head off.

“Call him,” she said with a deadly serious tone.

“Alright, alright,” I said, fumbling to pull my mobile out from my dressing gown’s pocket. It was Tuesday, telly, takeaway, and tantric sex-day, not invite Sherlock out for dinner-day. Why was she so intent on getting together with Sherlock all of a sudden?

I started typing away and immediately Mary was down my throat.

“Call him,” she said with an exasperated tone and an overly-dramatic sigh.

“I’m sending him a text; he always replies to my texts,” I explained.

“For God’s sake, John. Give me that,” she demanded, wrenching the phone from my grip.

“I was-“

“It just says ‘Dinner’ question mark!”

“Well, you know, I thought I’d keep it simple,” I said in my defence.

“It doesn’t say where at, what time-“

“Well we haven’t... wait, what are you doing?”

“I’m calling him,” she said, standing up with my phone.

“No, Mary, don’t. That’s my-“

I reached out for my mobile, trying to swipe it from her grasp. She held it up to her ear and turned away from me.

“Sherlock!” she said with an overly-enthusiastic tone.

“Mary,” I whispered, “Mary, give that back.”

“Oh, no, John’s fine. We’re all fine here. Say, listen, Sherlock, what would you say to dinner? Say eight o’clock?”

“Mary,” I warned in a voice, only slightly above a whisper. And can you believe it? She shushed me! She even put her finger to her lips and everything, like I was a bothersome child and not her soon-to-be husband. Well, I wouldn’t stand for it. I planted my feet firmly on the ground, reached out my palm, and said in my most unyielding of voices, “Mary, you give that phone back to me, right this instant.”

She gave me a look, from head to toe, and then walked off with my phone, chattering away with Sherlock like they were best of friends, while I stood there like a git with my feet together and my hand out like a beggar.

There was nothing I could do but stand there with my hands on my hips, giving her a stern-look, while she waltzed around the kitchen with Sherlock on the other end. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought she fancied him.

When she finally got around to hanging up the phone, suffice to say, I was cross.

“What was that all about?” I asked trying to keep my face void of expression.

“Have you named a best man yet?”

“No,” I said with a long drawl, not sure where she was going with this. She just looked at me and she kept staring at me, trying to speak to me telepathically, and after a full minute of awkward silence, she demanded I get dressed and go name my best man.

“Now?” I asked, hopping into my jeans.

“Yes, right now, it has to be now.”

“We... have... time,” I grunted, trying to button my jeans closed.

“John.”

I continued to struggle to make the damned jeans fit. I sucked my gut in as far as it would go, and when I finally managed to button them up.

“John, those are my jeans,” Mary informed me.

I looked down at the jeans I had managed to squeeze into, “So they are,” I said nonchalantly.

Mary tried to conceal her smile but ended up snorting a laugh and then couldn’t calm herself down. I swear she was still laughing long after I left. (With my proper jeans on, of course).


	2. Chapter 2

When I told Sherlock I wanted him as my best man, he was stunned. No, I mean, literally stunned. He stood, unblinking, for at least five minutes, to the point his eyes started watering. And it wasn’t because he was surprised I’d named him best man, but because I told him he was my best friend.

I thought it was obvious at that point, but apparently not.

I decided to stay for a while, I suppose to keep Mary off my back; spend some time with Sherlock, let her imagination run wild. Then of course Sherlock’s imagination started running wild. He had a million and one ideas about how the wedding should go and by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he was actively teaching me how to Waltz.

“You like dancing?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation casual as I waltzed around the room with my former flatmate who refused to let me take the lead, “I never knew that about you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Now you see, Mary, she would have taken a statement like that and twisted it. She’d try and make it sound like Sherlock was coming on to me, when in fact he was really stating the obvious. I’ve known Sherlock for ages and I still don’t know everything there is to know. I doubt I’ve even scratched the surface of what makes Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.

Mistakenly, I jolted when Mrs Hudson walked in on us. The curtains were drawn closed, the door was shut, I should have known better. This is how rumours are born.

Mrs Hudson looked embarrassed and turned her head away like she had actually caught us in the act, “Mary said she’s running a bit late, boys. Both your phones were off and... well, I didn’t want to make a fuss... but she’s on her way,” she said nervously as she left promptly, closing the door behind her.  

“You’d swear we were dancing the Tango naked the way Mrs Hudson was looking at us,” I confided in Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored me completely and offered his left hand.

“I’m leading this time,” I told him.

“The best of leaders are the greatest of followers.”

“And what does that make you?” I jeered.

Sherlock grabbed my hand forcefully and all but demanded that I Waltz with him. I really had no choice, because every time I stopped to protest he stepped on my toes.

“Ow, Sherlock! Stop, that hurts!” I shouted.

“Quit whining, you’re throwing me off beat,” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth.

“I want to stop! This doesn’t feel right,” I made a few small grunts as I tried to pry myself from his vice grip.

“We’re almost finished,” he growled.

“Fine,” I conceded. Then he stomped on my toes once more, “Ow! That really hurt!” I told him, making sure he was aware that I didn’t like being stepped on.

“Then move faster!” he shouted.

“There, how’s that?” I asked, speeding up as fast as I could.

“It’s about time!”

“Ow!” I shouted once more as he pointedly stepped on my foot. “What was that for?”

“You’re not keeping with the tempo!”

I stomped my foot as hard as I could on top of his bare toes and he let out a howl and grabbed his foot.

“See how you like it.”

He continued to carry on as he hopped towards the sofa.

“Oh, you big baby!” I called out after him.

At that very instant, Mary walked in. Sherlock tended to his foot like a poor wounded animal.

“What kept you?” I asked, giving Mary a peck on the cheek.

“Just, you know... traffic,” she shrugged. Her breathing was laboured and her cheeks were flush. I felt her forehead with the back of my hand and she felt unreasonably warm for having just come inside.

“You alright?” I asked.

“Yeah, just a bit out of breath.”

“From listening in at the door?” Sherlock asked with a furrowed brow.

I looked to Mary to see if it was true and she smiled back at me as if to say, _“Whoops, you caught me!”_

“Oh, God,” I groaned.

Sherlock looked to me, obviously not getting the joke of which he was at the centre of.

“It’s nothing,” I told him, “How about dinner? I’m starving.”

Sherlock stood and regarded me stoically as he limped to his bedroom.

“You really did a number on him,” Mary said with a wry smirk.

“You should see what he did to me,” I grumbled.

“Maybe you could show me later.”

“Not until after the wedding,” then it hit me like a lorry full of bricks, “Whoa!” I shouted.

Sherlock hobbled out of the bedroom, quick as a flash, with a look of inquisition. He looked between us, rapidly, searching for an answer.

“Well?” he asked, not even attempting to hide his frustration.

When neither of us answered, he growled and limped to his chair with his shoes in his hand. I was quick to point out that the leg he hobbled in on and the one he was now favouring had switched.

“The blunt trauma has gone straight to my head; I fear I’ve developed a psychosomatic limp in its wake.”

“Dick,” I muttered under my breath. Sherlock shut out the world as he focused on his laces but Mary clearly heard me.

She had a look on her face that frightened me. I felt like a small furry woodland creature being circled by a majestic eagle, only from my angle she was terrifying and not at all majestic. There was a twinkle in her eye and a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Why my eyes darted to Sherlock, I’ll never know, but when they came back to rest on Mary, she gave me a slight nod.


	3. Chapter 3

In those days I’d never seen Sherlock so clueless and helpless. He was frantic and a bundle of nerves. Someone needed to defuse the situation and Mary was only adding fuel to the fire.

“Is Sherlock coming over tonight?” she asked again and again.

“He’s stressed out enough as it is, so please, if he comes, he comes, if he doesn’t-“

“But he _is_ coming, right?” she asked with a worried face.

“He’s Sherlock! There’s no telling-“

Just then, the door rang. I’d never seen Mary in such a hurry to answer the door before, as if Sherlock was going to run away if she didn’t answer it in a split second.

“Sherlock, come in,” she said, welcoming him inside.

He was quick to remove his coat and make himself at home, stepping on our sofa instead of going around the normal way. He took a seat on the coffee table, looked over our coasters, worked out little deductions in his head, and made a general mess of things.

“Drink?” Mary offered.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Sherlock said, twiddling his thumbs and bouncing his leg up and down restlessly.,“On second thought...”

Mary turned on her heels to regard him.

“Scotch, two fingers, no three... hell, why not make it four?” he asked with a grin. He looked away suddenly and started organizing (or rather disorganizing) our magazines. While Mary was searching for the Scotch, Sherlock stood and brushed his hands on his trouser’s legs, “On third thought, tea’s fine.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Mary said, ducking to grab the kettle from the cabinets below.

The moment she disappeared out of view, Sherlock made a face at me as if to say, _“We need to talk.”_

I replied with a face that I thought conveyed the message, _“What about?”_

And he replied with an, _“Outside, now!”_ sort of look and I gave him a small nod and followed him out on to the balcony.

I slid the door closed and watched as he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“About the stag party-“

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! The wedding is months away!” I shouted, “We have plenty of time.”

“I couldn’t bring it up in front of Mary. John, as a best man and your best friend, I’m telling you, this is a terrible idea. I can’t let you go through with this,” he said as he reached out to grab me by the shoulders.

“Sherlock,” I said, trying to pry his hand off my shoulder.

“John, listen to me, I can’t let you do this to Mary, it’s my duty as the best man-“

“Sherlock!”

“John! Would you listen to me? I’m not letting you ruin your one chance at happiness with a prostitute!”

We both spooked when Mary slid open the glass door.

“Everything okay? I heard shouting,” she asked, looking between us.

“Nothing, just a miscommunication,” I said, covering for both of us.

“Oh, alright,” she said, raising her eyebrows. She obvious saw right through us but wasn’t about to call us out on it, not yet.

She handed Sherlock a tall glass of Scotch and he held it in his shaking hand. She slid the door closed and gave me her all-knowing smile.

“Sherlock,” I said calmly and smoothly, “I’m not looking to have sex with a prostitute the night before my wedding.”

“Well, of course we wouldn’t have the party the night before the wedding. You’d need at least a day to recover.”

“I’m not looking to have sex with a prostitute ever,” I elaborated.

“Then why-“

“There will be no prostitutes at the stag party, no women, no anything. Just alcohol and... good times,” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but I quickly intervened, “Without sex!”


	4. Chapter 4

After the air had cleared and Sherlock no longer thought he’d have to step foot in a brothel, he was happy as a lark, reorganizing my flat to his liking.

I looked on with annoyance as he rearranged my DVD collection while Mary seemed delighted by his antics.

“It’s OCD,” I whispered to her.

“Aw, it’s sort of cute,” she cooed, “In a way.”

“Just don’t let him into the bedroom, last thing I need is him seeing the state of our sock drawer.”

“Why would I let him into the bedroom?” she asked with a serious face.

“Well... I,” I stuttered.

“This case is empty,” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Try the-“

“I’m not an idiot, the DVD player is empty as well,” Sherlock sneered as he jumped to his feet, “Someone you know, someone very close to you, has taken it from you, without your permission.”

“Oh, God,” I groaned. Mary looked absolutely thrilled as Sherlock started searching the flat, looking for clues, with the DVD case in hand.

“This is exciting,” Mary squealed with delight, “Just like your blog.”

“Only he’s not going to find a dead body in our toilet,” I thought to myself a moment, “He’d better not.”

Sherlock headed straight to the toilet and started searching through our personal items, making snide remarks about the amount of hair care products I owned, the state of my sink, the species of mould on my ceiling. Then he found our built-in linen closet.

It took him just a second to scurry up the shelves and into the attic’s crawl space.

I stood by the door, looking up at his dangling feet disappearing into the black abyss, as he crawled through.

“I think he likes it here,” Mary remarked, looking up at the ceiling.

“He’s like a bloody five year old,” I said, debating whether or not to go up after him as he started making a racket, “No, you know what? A five year old would know better!”

“John, you’re being harsh.”

“Harsh? Harsh! There’s a fully grown man skittering about above our heads and I’m being harsh?”

“Let him have his fun, he doesn’t get out much anymore,” she said sadly.

“He’s going to find the neighbours flat and scare the-“

The door bell chimed and scared me half to death. I clutched on to my racing heart as Mary went to answer the door.

“Sherlock!” she shouted with surprise. “Long time, no see, come in!” she ushered Sherlock in who was shaking the dust and debris from his hair.

“You should have that sealed off, it leads straight outside, any man could... what?” Sherlock asked, matching my look of annoyance.

“He’s right, anyone could break in to our flat,” Mary agreed.

“Oh, right and now you’re going to tell me that the thief that stole our DVD but not its case got in through the linen cupboard?” I asked Sherlock.

“No, I was going to tell you I was the one that borrowed the DVD,” Sherlock said as he avoided eye contact with me, “Not intentionally of course. You left it in the DVD player at home... Baker Street,” he corrected, “It was the last film we watched together,” he said solemnly, handing me the case.

Roger Moore, _Live and Let Die._

“I’d best be going,” Sherlock said, snatching his coat from the side of the sofa, and leaving in a hurry.

I stood with the DVD case in hand for quite some time, just staring at it. I forgot about our Bond marathon that had only lasted a film and a half, of which Sherlock saw only small bits and fragments and was therefore fairly confused when Sean Connery turned into Roger Moore.

I looked up to see Mary was acting strange, like she didn’t know how to feel. I thought I knew how she was feeling but then she burst out and yelled, “Why do you always have to scare him away?”

She became a whirlwind of emotions and escaped to the bedroom, slamming the door shut, and locking me out. Leaving me to wonder what I had done.


	5. Chapter 5

I went to Sherlock on my own and apologised to a deaf ear. He wouldn’t hear a word and refused to accept my apology, stating that he was in the wrong. That was truly a first, but when I tried to get him to explain he shooed me away, saying he had official wedding business to attend to.

Then I started noticing something peculiar. He and Mary started having more and more meetings on their own. If I didn’t know any better I would have said the two were fooling around, but I was convinced Mary had never kept anything a secret the way she prattled on and on about what Sherlock and she had decided for the wedding. Sherlock took his job as best man more serious than the Captain of the Queen’s Guard. They’d never try anything behind my back, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t still suspicious and a bit jealous to tell the truth.

So, I attended every boring meeting, sampled the perfumes, looked through the colour swatches, discussed the catering options, and just when I was about to turn blue in the face, Mary offered to take me out lingerie shopping.

“Yes,” I said, hopping up from my old chair, “I mean,” I cleared my throat, “If it’s okay with Sherlock.”

“Fine, I’ll come along, but only for support,” Sherlock said with a long and languid yawn.

“No, Sherlock, you-“

“Oh, let him come along, it will be fun,” Mary said excitedly.

Another red flag!

I wasn’t about to let my best friend watch my future wife try on sexy negligees. I was on panty patrol and I wasn’t about to let Sherlock take over my duties as a man and oversee my woman’s choice in panties for the big night.

Mary pulled me aside and whispered, “You owe it to him, after the other night.”

“He forgave me,” I complained, “He pretty much said it was his fault.”

“Think of it as a replacement to the stripper at your stag party.”

“Wh-what?” I asked, completely and utterly shocked at what she had just said.

“I’ll put on a show, it will be fun,” she said with a little shrug and slight crinkle of her nose.

I went along dumbly, a slave to my hormones.

The flashing neon signs advertising _sex, sex, sex,_ lured me in blindly into one of Soho’s finest shops. I kept my head down, walking past the rows of sex toys and pornographic films, keeping my eyes trained on the back of Mary’s heels like a good soldier. We reached the back of the store, dedicated to scanty clothing, and I spotted a zebra-print fabric bench where I could sit quietly and wait for it all to be over.

Sherlock sat on the bench with me, pointing in the opposite direction of the changing area, typing away at his mobile. I was grateful that he wasn’t keen on watching my private show.

Mary swept past me with an armful of underwear and before I could get a good look, she stepped into the fitting area, pulled the curtain closed, and started to strip. I watched the curtain sway and her feet dance as she slipped on the first pair.

Suddenly, Mary peeled back the curtain and revealed herself. My jaw hit the floor when I saw her.

She had on a sheer coral pink dress that left little to the imagination. I was dumbfounded and feeling quite lightheaded just from looking at her. It accentuated her curves perfectly and highlighted her voluptuous breasts. It was like seeing her in a whole new light. I just wanted to reach out and grab her.

“You look beautiful,” I said in awe.

“Sherlock?” she asked.

“The colour drains you, try the burgundy,” he said without looking up.

“See, that’s how you shop,” she pointed out, stepping back behind the curtain.

I let out a small noise, much like a whimper, of disappointment.

“You didn’t even look,” I complained, turning to try and catch a glimpse of his phone’s screen.

“I thought you didn’t want me looking.”

“She values your opinion,” I admitted, “And as long as you’re not gawking.”

Sherlock spun around quickly and sat straight forward with his hands on his lap, waiting patiently. We sat hip to hip on the tiny bench and it felt like the more I scooted over, the more space Sherlock seemed to occupy.

Mary emerged once more, in what had to be little more than two pieces of cloth covering her nipples. My eyes went wide and I looked over to see Sherlock regarding her as he would a crime scene. I wanted to throttle him for being so callous.

“I’d say it’s more claret than burgundy,” he finally said, after a long and deliberate pause.

“Yeah, but how does it look?” she asked.

“It fits well,” he said with a shrug, “But I’m not an expert in women’s lingerie.”

“What about men’s?” she asked with an all too smooth tone.

“I suppose I have a better formed opinion in that area,” Sherlock confessed.

“Surely we can find something for John-“

“No! Nope, no, no, no,” I said, putting my foot down, “I’m not modelling pants for you two to critique me.”

“Oh, come on, I did it for you!” Mary whined, “What’s the difference?”

“I’m a man,” I stated weakly.

“So I’m going to be the only one looking sexy in the bedroom while you wear your old... school pants with the name sewn in?” She asked, waving her hand about in frustration. 

“She’s right, John. You’re pants aren’t the least bit flattering.”

“Stop, stop it right there, I’m getting off this crazy train,” I said, standing up to leave.

“Sit down,” Mary scolded, “Now Sherlock is going to go out there and find you some pants and you’re going to try them on and we’re going to have fun!” She snapped her fingers and Sherlock hopped to it.

“I don’t understand why I have to make a fool out of myself in front of my friend,” at this point I was beyond pathetic, waiting for Sherlock to pick out sexy underwear for me. The more I thought about it, the more distressed I became.

Sherlock returned with only one pair. Bright red, white trim, modest cut. I was just grateful it wasn’t a thong.

I went into the dressing area, quickly pulled down my jeans and pants, slid on the new ones, and stepped out briefly so Mary could have a look.

“Perfect, get em,” she said disinterestedly. She was fully dressed, leaning with her shoulder against the mirror, and staring at her phone. I stood like an idiot, with my socks up to my knees, no trousers, in bright red underpants, and all I got was a, _“Eh, sure, whatever.”_

I lifted up the front of my shirt and pointed to myself, “Why don’t you look?” I asked. She glanced up for a moment.

“I said they were fine,” she said, looking back down again.

“Sherlock?” I asked.

“You could... use a size down...” he said uncomfortably, trying not to stare.

“See, that’s how you shop,” I mocked her as Sherlock left to get another pair of gaudy pants.

This time he came back with three pairs. The red, short boxer briefs, and what looked to be silk boxers. I tried on all three, just to spite Mary, but none of them caught her attention. She was glued to that damned phone.

I thought I’d show her, I only had to nod to Sherlock and he was off to find the most suggestive pants in the store.

He returned with a black leather jock strap.

I hurried to try it on and even went so far as to remove my socks and t-shirt. It was rigid and tight but fit me like a glove. The straps cut into my thighs a bit and made it difficult to walk. I looked myself over in the mirror and thought I looked ridiculous with my bottom hanging out in the open, like a red arse baboon. I took in a deep breath and stepped out from behind the curtain.

“Is this what you want?” I asked, spinning around to show off my exposed backside.

“Wow,” she said, looking me over. “Sherlock?”

“No, no, Sherlock, don’t look,” I said, trying to cover myself up.

“Why not? He picked them out?” she asked.

“He didn’t... he didn’t pick them out specifically, he just-“

“Sherlock what do you think?” she asked.

I could see the shame in Sherlock’s eyes. I could tell he didn’t want to look but he forced himself to anyway. It never occurred to me he would be so affected by skimpy clothing.

“Am I allowed to like it?” he asked.


	6. Chapter 6

“Consider it a wedding present,” Mary begged, “To me.”

“The bride and groom don’t exchange gifts, they exchange vows.”

“Just to try it out.”

“No! Not ‘just to try it out’. Not now, not ever, I’m not doing anything with Sherlock Holmes.”

“You saw the way he looked at you!”

“I was wearing arseless pants! Anyone would stare,” I said defensively

“Not with longing and desire like he did. John,” she whined, “Please consider it.”

“What’s there to consider? I’m not having sex with my best friend and that’s final.”

“It’s not sex, it’s just a kiss. It’s all I’m asking for.”

“I can’t kiss Sherlock.”

“Why not?” she asked, sitting up in the bed.

“Because,” I said, rubbing my forehead as I paced the floor in front of her, “It’s weird.”

“Oh, I see,” she said.

“Finally,” I said with a sigh of relief.

She waved her finger at me and nodded her head; she was starting to make sense of things, “You see him as a child.”

“An over grown man-child, yes.”

“Well there’s your problem!”

“I know,” I said. I thought about it a moment and then furrowed my brows in confusion, “Excuse me. What’s my problem?”

“If only the two of you could see eye to eye.”

“I’d have to grow a good half a foot,” I joked.

“You need to stop treating him like a child.”

I let the thought mull over in my head before I answered, “Fine, I’ll stop treating him like a child.”

“Really?”

“But I won’t kiss him.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Mary chuckled. I crawled into bed with her and turned out the lights. And as I was leaning in for a kiss, she placed a hand against my chest, “Wait right there.”

“What are you doing?” I laughed as she hurried out of the bed and made way for the dresser. She began digging around and I squinted to see her moving around in the dark.

She returned to my bed side and by the light of the moon I saw her concealing something behind her back.

“I snuck it in while we were shopping,” she said with a wide smile. Even in the dim light, I could tell she was blushing and biting her bottom lip, “Here, hold out you hand, and close your eyes.”

I obliged and closed my eyes and stuck out my hand. She slapped something firm and hard yet slightly rubbery into my hand. At first I had no idea what it was. I opened my eyes when I felt the Velcro straps.

“What is it?” I asked dumbly.

“A strap-on.”

I dropped the dildo on to the floor and wiped my hands clean, letting out a noise of utter repulsion.

“What for?” I asked with a squeak, suddenly feeling inadequate. If my fiancée thought I needed to strap on an extra few inches to satisfy her...

“It’s not for you,” she said, bending over to pick it up, “It’s for me.”

“Well of course it’s for you,” I said clutching on to the edge of the bed.

“No, it’s for me, to...” she let the sentence hang in midair, “You know.”

Then it dawned on me what she was planning to do with that rubber willy, “No,” I gasped.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never been the least bit curious.”

“No, I haven’t,” I said with a loud gulp. She crept closer and took a seat beside me.

“Don’t you think this would be better? Trying it out with some you trust?” she held my hand tightly, “A woman?”

“Better than what?” I asked, completely aghast.

“Than, you know... one day deciding that-“

“I’m not gay!” I shot up and out of the bed and I was nearly to the door before she spoke.

“I never said you were!”

“You want to shove that... that _thing_ up my arse!”

“How does that make you gay?”

“Mary!” I said with a loud groan, “That’s just about the gayest thing you can do! Take it up the arse!”

“Calm down, John. You’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting? Overreacting! Me?”

“John, we have neighbours,” she reminded me, “Now sit down and we’ll discuss this calmly and as rationally as possible.”

“I don’t want to discuss _this,”_ I said, pointing to the offending object in her hand.

“I won’t force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“No, but you’ll hold it over my head.”

“I’ll put it in the sock drawer if it makes you that uncomfortable.”

“I don’t want it in my sock drawer, I don’t want it in my flat, and I especially don’t want it in my-“

“John,” she interrupted, “Sit down, we need to talk.”

I walked over, dragging my feet, dreading the inevitable. I took a seat next to her on the bed and stared off into the distance.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, leaning back and wrapping one arm around my waist.

“You want to violate my... bottom,” I said, clearing my throat.

“No, what’s _really_ wrong?” she asked once more.

I looked at her, trying to analyse her gaze. She had on that _“We both know what’s going on here,”_ face that I hate so much because I never know what’s going on.

“Is this about Sherlock?” she asked.

“Wh-how do-“

She pressed her finger to my lips to hush me, “John, be honest.”

She removed her finger slowly and placed her hand in mine.

“No, it isn’t.”

“John,” she said in a low voice, “Isn’t it?”

“No,” I repeated.

“Isn’t it?”

I bit my tongue and sat there in the dark. I felt my nerves flare, but not in anger like one would expect, or hope for. I was truly nervous. My stomach did a little flip, my pulse quickened, I felt my palms start to sweat. My grip tightened on Mary’s hand.

“I don’t think I’m ready,” I finally said.

“That’s alright,” Mary said, patting the back of my hand. She crawled over to her side of the bed, slid under the sheets, and settled in.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t still do it the normal... boring way,” I said with a nervous chuckle, “Mary?” I asked, reaching out to shake her hip.

“Not tonight, John. I’m not in the mood.”

Figures.


	7. Chapter 7

The thought of the fleshy pink dildo dangled above my head like the sword of Damocles, hanging on by the thread of horse-hair, threatening to fall at any moment. That night I tossed and turned, stirring with anxiety and worry about what might befall me in my sleep. I wondered how long Mary would stretch this out.

Would there always be this elephant in the room so long as I lived and breathed?

By morning, I was exhausted, but grateful we both had work to distract us that day.

We worked in awkward silence for the first half of the day and only exchanged glances when she came in to hand me my files and supplies.

However, come noon, her attitude changed and her spirits brightened.

“Prostate exam,” she announced with a bright smile, handing me a tube of lubricant.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” I said, placing the KY on the countertop.

“Your four o’clock, Mr Miller, age fifty,” Mary placed a hand on my forearm, “It’s his first time. Go easy on him, would you?”

I opened the file on my desk and held back a groan. Aged fifty, twenty stone. I may have groaned out loud. Okay, I most certainly did.

Mr Miller walked in, or rather waddled in. It was apparent, going by his chart, that he had gained a few since his last visit. He was sweating profusely and was panting heavily. I could smell his halitosis across the room, along with his pungent body odour. It was enough to make my eyes water.

I’ll spare you the graphic details, but let me just say, I was tempted to solder my hand with a blow torch after the whole experience.

While I was washing up, scrubbing up to my elbows, and trying to rid my mind of the mental image of Mr Miller bending over to reveal his fleshy white pockmarked bottom, Sherlock walked in unannounced.

“Sherlock, I’m working,” I said, trying not to acknowledge his presence.

“I have an appointment,” he said, handing me his chart.

“What?” I asked, truly startled.

I looked through his medical records with intrigue. I don’t know why, but I was fascinated to see his medical history. I was half expecting a list of injuries, half a mile long, but it appeared he hardly frequented the A&E. Which made sense, he was more likely to try mend his own wounds than let some doctor touch him.

“Don’t tell me you need a prostate exam as well,” I said lightly.

“No, I need a professional opinion.”

“It’d be a conflict of interest,” I said, shutting his file.

“I’ve lost my ability to obtain a full erection.”

Did my ears deceive me? Did I truly hear what I thought I had heard?

“Okay, let me have a look at my list of referrals,” I said as casually as I could muster. I pulled my binder off the shelf and started thumbing through, looking for a GP for Sherlock. Unfortunately the ones I knew and trusted were all women. I shut the book and took in a deep breath.

“Have a seat,” I finally said pointing to the chair, “Make yourself comfortable,” Sherlock hopped up on the examining table, brought his long legs up into a lotus position, and held his hands steepled under his chin in a Buddhist prayer, “What are you doing?”

“You said ‘make yourself comfortable’,” he said staring at me intently.

I took a seat in my chair, let out a deep breath, grabbed my pen and paper, and began the examination, trying my best to maintain a professional appearance.

“Are you on any-“

“No,” he answered quickly.

“Have you felt-“

“No.”

“Sherlock,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “Let me get through with the questions.”

“Have I been feeling increased levels of stress, anxiety, or new or worsening depression? No. Do you have a family history of ED, no. Heart disease, no. Diabetes, no. Cancer on my mother’s side,” Sherlock pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out for me, “I’ve taken the liberty of running my own CBC; I’ll also have you know my lipid profile is exemplary, and I can assure you my testosterone levels are quite normal.”

I took the paper from his hand and stuffed it in his file without looking at it, “So you believe it’s purely psychological?”

“No,” he scoffed, “What would make you believe that?”

“You ran tests and going by your medical history-“

“I believe there’s an underlying condition, much less benign.”

“Cancer?”

“No,” he said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Sherlock, when was the last time you had an erection?”

“Age twelve.”

“Sherlock,” I warned.

“Age thirty,” he tried again. I looked at him disapprovingly and he averted my gaze, “Three months ago.”

“Good,” I said encouragingly, “Well... not good, but it’s a start,” I said, jotting down notes on my pad of paper, “And how was the...erm... quality of the erection?”

He stared at me blankly, “Decent?”

“Alright, do you currently have a sexual partner?”

“You know that answer.”

“Have you ever-“

“No,” he said shortly, uncrossing his feet and letting them dangle over the edge, “And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask such personal questions.”

“It’s kind of a personal matter,” I said with a look of confusion.  Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a puff of air, “So what brought all this up? Or rather-“

“Don’t joke about this, it’s a serious condition.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.”

I sat there, silently wishing I wasn’t having this conversation with my best friend. Watching and waiting for him to make the next move, not wanting to compromise his trust.

“What do you propose, doctor?” he finally asked.

“I suppose a physical examination is in order,” I said, trying not to make it sound like a come on. I removed my stethoscope from around my neck and watched as Sherlock gave me a confused look with his hands at the ready to unzip his trousers, “We’ll start by taking a listen to your heart.”

“Is this what you do to all your patients? Give them the run around?”

“I need to check your vitals.”

Sherlock grabbed his wrist, checking his pulse, “Not dead!” he announced.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” I mocked, “There will be plenty of opportunity to drop your trousers later on.”

“Promise?”

I startled at his offhanded comment and I was slow to recover from it. I worked on auto-pilot, examining his heart, lungs, eyes, ears, nose, throat, anything to delay the unavoidable.

I pulled out a clean hospital gown and offered it to him. He refused and pushed my hand away.

“I’m not wearing that,” he said haughtily.

“Fine, just drop your trousers round your ankles then, and let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock obliged and I looked away.

“Gloves,” I said to myself. I grabbed a pair of gloves and wheeled over my chair to sit in front of Sherlock while he stood, with his hands to his sides, staring at the ceiling. Thank God for that.

I gathered my courage and donned my vinyl examination gloves. I closed my eyes and opened them to regard Sherlock clinically, divorcing myself from all my awkward feelings, as I searched for abnormalities.

The first thing I saw were his ginger-brown pubes. It made me want to laugh, but I knew that it would scar him for life if I did, so I kept a straight face. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be; not that I thought Sherlock’s cock would be exceptional or anything. It was just an average, ordinary, flaccid penis, nothing I hadn’t seen before.

“Alright, I am going to touch you now,” I warned, placing my hand against his inguinal region, pressing in gently, searching for any bulges or scaring. I moved on to his penis and found myself hesitating. I blinked a few times before taking the head of his penis between my thumb and forefinger.

“Any abnormal discharge?” I asked suddenly breaking the silence and spooking Sherlock.

“No, no,” he sputtered with a cough. He placed his hands behind his back and continued looking up at the ceiling. I looked up to see his eyes glance down at me and quickly back up at the ceiling.

I felt down the shaft of his penis and he hardened to my touch, which isn’t unusual during an examination of this nature. I didn’t linger long, but by the time I was ready to move on to his testis, he’d grown quite a bit, so to speak.  There was nothing remarkable about the curvature, his skin was intact, no signs of swelling or abnormalities, altogether a normal healthily adult penis.

I was tempted to measure, to... you know, compare size, but I thought he might catch on that I was a bit envious. All men are, really. Not that he was huge by any means. Not that I’m saying I’m small or anything. I’m not. His is just... bigger.

Alright so it’s not _that_ much bigger.

Okay, moving on. I examined his testicles, a left and a right, of equal size, and by the end of the exam his erectile dysfunction wasn’t as dysfunctional as he had once thought.

Sherlock pulled up his trousers, I threw away my gloves, and I looked him straight in the eye and asked, “What techniques are you using?”

“What?” he asked, looking at me in horror.

“To masturbate.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I _don’t,”_ he insisted.

“Then why did I just fiddle with your bits for the past ten minutes?” 

“Mary-“

Just then Mary walked through the door and I felt an electric shock wave whip my spine, making me jolt at the sight of her.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asked.

“No, no,” I stammered. Sherlock did up his zip and stood leaning against the examining table.

“Everything alright?” she asked, noting my wandering eyes.

“Yeah, sure, everything’s fine,” I lied, “Sherlock?”

“Fine,” he agreed with a diffident shrug.

“It’s fine, it’s all fine,” I said reassuringly.

“We’re closing up now,” she said softly, looking at both of us like she knew something was amiss. “Sherlock, are you joining us for dinner?”

“I should... go,” he hesitated, looking to me for an answer, “Yeah.”

He left the examining room and I noticed him walking with a slight limp. I walked into the waiting room and watched as Sherlock shrugged on his coat and drew it in close.

“Sherlock?” I asked, “Would you like a ride home? We could share a cab.”

“I’m fine,” he said, waving his free hand dismissively.

“We won’t be long,” I said, as Mary started locking up.

“Nah,” Sherlock said, still holding the front of his coat in a death grip.

“Alright, you call me if you need anything,” I regretted saying it the moment the words crossed my lips. If that didn’t sound like a come on, nothing did. I might as well have given him a wink and told him I’d take care of that little erection problem of his.

And the problem was, once I started thinking about Sherlock getting an erection, my own penis got it inside its head that it should be aroused as well. It was neither the time nor the place to be getting a hard-on, yet there I was, starting to lose blood flow from my brain.

I had jitters in my fingertips and a low burning flame in my groin by the time we stepped outside of the clinic. By the time Mary and I reached the tube station I had to stop her by tugging on her elbow.

“I can’t,” I told her.

“You can’t what?”

“I can’t ride the train like this.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, now can we please hail a cab,” I said shortly.

“Alright,” she giggled, “Let’s get you home.”

The more times I told her to stop laughing, the more her laughter grew. By the time we arrived home she sounded like she had a case of whooping cough, unable to breathe between laughing spasms.

“It’s not funny,” I said, shedding my coat.

“It’s not, I’m sorry, it’s not,” she panted. Her face was bright red, her eyes were watering, and she had to hold her sides to keep from doubling over in pain, “It hurts.”

“Stop laughing!” I shouted, throwing my jacket on the back of the sofa.

“I can’t!” she cried out.

I retreated to the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

“Oh, why don’t you let the nurse have a look?” she asked, swinging the door open.

“It’s gone now, you laughed it away,” I said, drawing a pillow on to my lap.

“Let me see,” she smiled, trying to pull the pillow away.

“No, you laughed,” I said, tugging on the pillow.

“So grumpy,” she pouted and matched my expression, furrowing her brow, pretending to be cross.

“Leave me alone,” I said, trying to conceal my smile.

“Not until you let me see it,” she said, tearing the pillow away.

“I’m not in the mood,” I said, turning my nose up to the air.

“Oh really?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said with a pop.

“Then what’s that?” she asked, pointing to bulge in my trousers.

“It’s always like that,” I said with a shrug.

Her hand was on my crotch so fast I didn’t have time to blink, before she started groping me.

“Oh, God,” I panted.

“Lay back,” she said, pushing down on my shoulder. I removed the pillows from behind my head and sunk down, flat onto my back, just as asked.

There are about ten good things a woman can do to a man while he’s on his back, and I was hoping for at least three that evening. I closed my eyes and concentrated on her wanderings hands, working their way up my legs, massaging my thighs, getting closer and closer, until...

“Wait right there, don’t move!” she shouted.

I sat up and looked through glazed eyes at my fiancée riffling through the sock drawer.

“Oh, no,” I groaned, lying back down. I covered my eyes with the heels of my hands.

“Just in case you change your mind,” she said, rushing back. She leapt on to the bed with me and placed the strap-on right next to my head.

“Does it have to be right there?” I asked.

She ignored me and went to work unzipping my trousers and sliding them halfway down my hips. I lifted my bum and she slid them the rest of the way off, taking my shoes and socks with them, and leaving me only in my collared shirt. I lay at half-mast, considering my options, none of which looked bright.

I let her return to her physical examination and tried to think happy thoughts. Then she gave me a lick and my thoughts turned elsewhere. Like to her tongue on my shaft and her hand on my balls.

I was completely at ease, my head was floating in space, her mouth was wrapped around my cock, I was happy; everything was right with the world. And then she stuck a finger where it didn’t belong.

My head hit the headboard, she swallowed me whole, I squirmed and curled my toes, her long finger curled upwards, and I thought I had died. This wild fire and ice prickling sensation travelled throughout my whole body. I could feel her inside me. I found my hips moving on their own accord to the strokes of her finger.

I went boss-eyed and held my breath when she found my prostate. It wasn’t painful per se, more like too much all at once, a sharp stab of pleasure. Definitely the best blow job I’d ever had, yet I was more focused on her finger than anything else. It was just enough stretch and stimulation to cause me to squirt a load so far back in her throat there was no way she could possibly spit it out.

She released me completely and I suddenly felt very cold. I felt like apologising but I couldn’t form the words. She left and the last thing I remember was hearing the water running in the en suite.

I fell asleep a happy man.


	8. Chapter 8

I slept through dinner and awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. I decided to let Mary be and spent the Saturday morning, picking up around the flat.

Mary finally awoke from her slumber around noon and started showering and putting her face on. She looked exhausted when she finally came out to sit on the sofa.

She sat with her foot on the coffee table, painting her toe-nails, sighing heavily, and resting her chin on her knee.

Instead of making the classic mistake of asking, _“What’s wrong?”_  I thought I might cheer her up a bit.

“I wrote a new blog,” I said proudly.

“That’s nice,” she sighed, now laying the side of her face against her knee, painting her toes with disinterest.

“Would you like some lunch?”

“Not really,” she said with another heavy sigh.

I thought of every which way to avoid the question. I should have known what was wrong with her. It was my duty as a man to find out what was bothering her and put an end to it.

“Should we... invite Sherlock over?” I offered.

“Sure, why not?” she shrugged and let it yet another sigh.

“Alright, bad idea,” I said with a hum.

“No,” she said quickly

“Oh,” I said smacking my lips together, “I see.”

“John,” she said with a dismissive scoff, “That’s not what I _mean_. Invite him, go ahead. One way or the other, doesn’t matter to me,” she said, trying to play it cool, but for once I knew I had her.

“We could always just spend a quiet evening in,” I offered.

“It’s always more fun with Sherlock, don’t you think?”

“When was the last time we spent the evening in, just you and me?”

“Last night,” she said, gravely serious. I met her gaze and held eye contact until she started to squirm. “Oh, just call him already.”

“And what are we going to do to him when he gets here?” I asked with a smile. I could see the gears turning in her head. I’d completely neglected her needs the night prior and now it was my time to make it up to her.

Even if nothing ever happened, between me and Sherlock, she could still dream.

She brought out the wedding planner book and a few fabric samples, just to set the mood. She lit a few candles to add to the ambience. And finally she wiped off just enough make-up to make it look like she didn’t just put it on for Sherlock’s sake.

I still get surprised when Sherlock arrives on time and not half an hour early or two years late. When I opened the door and let him in, he was much more reserved. He walked towards the sofa and actually went around it instead of trying to travel through it. He observed Mary closely and watched as she wrote things in her book. She always had things to plan for the wedding, so it wasn’t that deceptive to call Sherlock over for his advice.

Mary sat on the floor, in front of the coffee table, plotting and scheming, weaving her master plan. I wanted a perfect wedding but I had realistic expectations with Sherlock as the best man. Sherlock took a seat at the coffee table and silently studied the fabrics.

They all looked purple to me. I pulled a beer out of the fridge and sat myself down on the sofa and turned on the telly.

“John, thoughts,” Mary demanded, shoving a bundle of fabrics into my face.

“S’nice,” I said, trying to see around her.

“What about dinner?” she asked.

“Chinese,” I said, not letting my attention waver from the news. I kept an eye out for any unsolved cases that might spark Sherlock’s interest. So far he’d been so preoccupied with the wedding that he hadn’t bothered to pick anything up in ages.

“No I mean at the wedding.”

“How many meals are we feeding these people?” I asked, finally looking down.

“If we keep them long enough, we’ll have to at least feed them two.”

“Eh,” I said, curling my upper lip.

“If not three,” Sherlock added.

“Brunch, lunch, dinner, who knows, we may even have to have something in between to tide people over,” Mary said, looking through her book.

“I’m suddenly feeling very antisocial,” I admitted.

“It’s an all-day affair.”

“I’m getting tired just thinking about it,” I mumbled. Mary slapped me on the knee and went back to hunting for that perfect colour for the bride’s maid’s dresses.

“Alright I’ve narrowed it down to six,” she said, laying out her swatches on the table. Sherlock grabbed three, discarded them, and added four. Mary took away two of his, then Sherlock grabbed two of hers. Sherlock and Mary fought over one, discarded another, and compromised on the third.

“Lilac it is, no going back,” Mary said.

Then Sherlock pulled out another swatch, “Unless we went with mulberry.”

“Oh, that’s not fair,” Mary said, taking the swatch away, “I love that colour. They’d look fantastic in mulberry.”

“So, that’s a no then?” Sherlock asked.

“Definitely not,” she said with a smile, tossing it back into the pile with the rest.

“Yes, lilac will drain their features and make them all look like they’re retaining water.”

“Sherlock,” Mary half-heartedly chided, “Rude,” she laughed, “But true,” she whispered at the end.

I was on my third beer by the time they finished. I was all but melting into the couch on an empty stomach.

“Chinese?” Mary offered.

“Oh, God yes,” I said a bit too enthusiastically. I sat up and felt the blood rush to my head.

“Alright, I’ll be back in a few, love you,” she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.

“Where are you going?” I asked sadly.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink,” she said, taking my empty bottle away.

“I’m only on my third.”

“You’re a bit of a light-weight.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” she said, giving me a playful shove, causing me to fall backwards on to the cushions, “Bye!” she shouted from the door. And from the other side I could have sworn she whispered, _“Sexual.”_


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock and I waited around, bored; spinning an empty bottle around on the coffee table. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then I suddenly remembered he had to walk home with a hard-on last night. And before I could stop myself I asked, “So, how was last night?”

“Fine,” Sherlock responded.

I pretty much asked if he had fun wanking it alone last night and he basically said he had an okay time, nothing too special.  I might as well have asked, _“And did you have an orgasm when you wanked it? How much discharge was there? What colour was it? Can you drop your trousers once more so I can have another look?”_

What I found most disturbing was that I liked knowing I had that kind of effect on him. I hardly had to touch him and he had a raging hard-on. It made me want to do it again, just to see.

“Would you like something to drink?” I asked, wanting to get him drunk so I could touch him inappropriately to see if he’d sport another erection for me. In my defence I was pretty drunk at this point.

Sherlock declined, but I moved closer to him anyhow.

“So, wedding?” I asked as if it were an ice-breaker, “How are you feeling?” I asked, looking up at him with my brows furrowed, “Really?”

“A bit cramped, you know there is a whole other side to the couch,” he reminded me.

“Do you ever wonder-“

“No,” he said.

“Do you ever wonder it’s like to, I don’t know, say... be kissed by a man?”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, “Nope.”

“Ever been kissed by a man?”

“Have you?”

I had to think about that, “Once or twice, as a joke. Mistletoe, Christmas, Army...” I said, waving my hand around. I stretched out my arms placed them on the back of the sofa. My fingertips brushed Sherlock’s shoulder but he didn’t move a muscle. I took it a bit further, analysing his reaction, moving my hand closer and closer, until it was fully on top of his left shoulder.

“This is nice,” I stated.

Sherlock stared straight forward, eyes unwavering.

“So tense, all the time,” I took the liberty of rubbing his shoulders which were completely rigid, “Lighten up!” I said, giving him a firm pat on the back as I stood up, “How about a beer?”

“Tea,” he choked out.

“Scotch it is.”

I poured him a heaping serving of Scotch and returned with a finger or two for myself. He chugged the glass in one gulp. He looked at me with misty eyes.

“That burned,” he coughed.

I laughed and patted his back as he hacked and coughed. I took a few swigs of my drink and immediately felt the effect.

“Woo,” he said, sitting up.

“Better?”

I could tell his head was swimming already, but I offered the rest of my glass to him and he took it without question.

It wasn’t the first time we’d been drunk together, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but in that moment we were really, really, really drunk.

All I remember is Mary walked in and I was on top of Sherlock on the sofa, with my hands combing through his hair like he was a woolly lamb (and in fact his hair does feel like lamb’s wool). I think I had just wanted to ruffle his hair, we’d gotten into an argument, and I had won.

“Don’t judge me!” I shouted at Mary, “It feels amazing!” was my defence.

“I’m sure it does,” she said, placing the food on the table.

The night was a blur. I’m pretty sure I ate, because there was rice everywhere. I might have tossed a handful at Sherlock and he retaliated by pouring the box down my shirt. I’m pretty sure that happened.

I do remember Mary was amused. We put on a show for her and she seemed to love our boyish antics, but remained out of the line of fire and flying food. Then Sherlock started eating my food, I stole out of his box, and we fought back and forth, giggling the night away.

Then he had my fortunate cookie half hanging out of his mouth, I went to snatch it away but decided instead to grab the other end with my teeth, and when it broke in half, we both fell backwards and Sherlock ended up eating the fortune.

It was all fun and games until the neighbours started pounding on the door and Sherlock and I decided it would be a brilliant idea to roll around the floor and pretend to make-out while Mary answered the door. Little did I know Sherlock didn’t know how to ‘pretend’ to make-out.

I put a knee up in defence, but he ended up grinding up against my thigh, moaning, and trying to suck my tongue out of my mouth. I could neither see nor hear the neighbour’s reaction, but they were sure gone quick.

“Alright, the coast is clear!” Mary shouted. I pushed Sherlock off and wiped my chin clear of his slobber.

Mary leaned on the wall and shook her head, “You boys.”


	10. Chapter 10

 The next part I remember vividly. We were just fooling around, not long after Sherlock left, and I started feeling frisky.

I rolled myself on top of Mary and we were having a good old time, making out, grinding our pelvises together, getting turned on, when suddenly I decided to give _it_ a try.

“You know,” I said, rubbing up against her, “We could try that thing.”

“What thing?” she asked with a playful smile. She’d been massaging my arse, grabbing at it, sliding her hands down the back of my pants. I knew she wanted it. She’d always been fascinated with my bum for whatever reason.

“You know,” I said, “That _thing.”_

She looked at me a moment, “Oh! That thing,” she said excitedly. She grabbed my bottom roughly and dug her fingertips into my fleshy cheeks, “I never thought you’d actually go for it,” she teased.

“Oh, shut up, before I go and change my mind.”

Mary reached her hand under my pillow and withdrew the strap-on. I searched under my pillow to see what else she had been keeping under there.

“Take your clothes off,” she said excitedly. She looked over the confounding straps and started trying to find which way was right side up. She quickly became frustrated with the apparatus, but every time I tried to show something to her, she batted my hand away.

I stripped down to my pants and waited for her to do the same, but instead she placed the strap on over her clothes.

“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” I asked nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed.  

“Feels weird,” she said, shaking her hips back and forth, making her fake cock dance.  I snorted a laugh and had to cover my mouth and close my eyes.

“Oh, my God,” I laughed as my face turned a bright red.

“What? This doesn’t turn you on?”

“I can’t take you seriously when you wave it around like that,” I explained.

“You boys and your toys,” she chuckled, “This is kind of fun, makes me wish I was born with one.”

It was then that I realized she was likely serious about it. Why else would she want to do such a thing?

“Okay, now what?” she asked as she crawled on top of me. I could feel the rubber dong sliding against my inner thigh, contrasted with her cotton pyjama bottoms brushing against my leg.

“Erm,” I said, swallowing hard.

“Would you like to... touch it?” she offered with an award winning smile.

“Not really,” I said, looking down at it.

“It’s supposed to feel like the real thing.”

I distinctly remembered it feeling like rubbery plastic and slightly squishy. Not at all like the ‘real thing’. I’ve been handling my real thing all my life and know a great deal about what it is supposed to feel like and _it_ did not.

“Yeah, but which is better the real thing,” I said, pointing to myself, “Or that?”

Mary sat up on to her knees and looked down at it.

“I never really tried it out,” she shrugged, “Do you think I should?”

“Uh,” my brain flat-lined. She ripped off the strap-on, removed the dildo from its harness, and started shimmying out of her pyjama bottoms. She fell with a thud beside me on the bed and immediately started playing with herself.

“Hold this,” she said, handing me _it._ She closed her eyes, bit her bottom lip, and played with her clit like an old arcade game, “Almost,” she said. She opened her eyes and gave me a look, “You could help, you know?”

“How?” I croaked. It felt as if my whole throat had gone dry. I realized my mouth had been hanging wide open the whole time.

She spread her legs and simply said, “You owe me.”

I licked my lips and tried to wet my mouth as best I could before going down on her. I don’t mind it much, eating out, but it isn’t my favourite thing to do. As a result, I’m not too good at it. It’s not the taste; it’s relatively tasteless to tell the truth, it’s just... boring.

I’m a very visual person and with a face full of pussy, well, it doesn’t do much for me. After only a few licks, Mary was pushing me away. I sat on my elbow, at her side, and watched intently as she pressed the head of the dildo to her entrance. At this point I was drooling. She let out a moan and the look on her face was worth a thousand words.

“How’s it feel?” I asked.

“Oh, John. Call off the wedding. It’s better than the real thing,” she said breathlessly.

“Shut up,” I said with a laugh, “May I?”

She gave up the reins and let me fiddle around with the toy inside of her. She started breathing heavily, with her mouth wide open, and making all sorts of small noises. I have to admit it was sort of fun.

We started kissing and I picked up the pace, moving it in and out. She really started enjoying it, as did I. She started moaning with her mouth pressed against mine, her lips were buzzing, her hips were squirming, her eyes were closed tight. She grabbed my bicep tightly and I drove it home, bringing her to a climax.

She let out a loud groan and went from rigid to limp in a matter of seconds.

“Phew,” she sighed as I slowly removed the toy.

I twisted my wrist a few times and gave it a rub. It was a bit stiff, as were other things.

“Good?” I asked.

“The best,” she said with a sigh of relief.

“Don’t say that,” I said with a pout.

She reached up and placed a hand on my cheek, “Yours will always be better.”

“You don’t normally get off.”

“You don’t normally last that long,” she said, giving me a peck on the lips.

“Ta,” I said, holding my breath. I was a bit offended.

“Your turn,” she said, popping up and on to her knees.

“I really don’t think-“

“I know,” she interrupted with a smile, “Come on, you’ll love it,” she said trying to force me to lie down.

“Mary, I don’t want it like this,” I told her. She stopped pushing and let out a heavy sigh, “I’d like to be facing the other way.”

“What?” she asked with wide eyes, as if all her dreams had come true in that moment.

“Just let me, prepare myself,” I said, sliding off the bed, and heading for the en suite. I locked the door and sat on the toilet, with my head in my hands, rethinking my life’s choices. I ran my hands down my face, rested them on my chin, and said a prayer.

I left the loo feeling weak in the knees. They threatened to buckle as I made way for the bed where my fiancée was waiting, strapped into her false manhood, with a tube of lube in one hand, and her dong in the other. She was stroking her fake self, making a mess of the sheets, dripping lubricant everywhere.

“They say you should use more than you think you should,” Mary said in her defence as I looked disapprovingly at the spots on the bedspread.

“Who are they?”

“Internet,” she shrugged, “Now bend over and let me have at it.”

My arse tensed at her words.

“Kidding,” she said, “Just... kidding.”

I let go of my breath, not realizing I had been holding it in.

“Please don’t kill me,” I begged.

“Trust me,” she said, grabbing me by my biceps, “I’m a nurse,” she looked me over and couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear, “Have you been working out?” she said giving my arms a little squeeze.

“Oh, well, you know,” I said, blushing. She gently pulled me on to the bed and drew me into a hug.

“So sexy,” she said with a low growl.

“I try,” I said with a chuckle.

“Now relax and let nurse take care of you.”

“Ok,” I said with a nervous squeak.

“Ok, what?”

“Ok, Mary?”

“I prefer ma’am,” she teased, tapping me on the nose.

I laughed nervously, “Next you’re going to be breaking out the riding crop,” the look on her face scared me, “Tell me you don’t have a riding crop.”

“No, but I’m fairly sure Sherlock has a spare.”

My arse tensed once more and I found it hard to breathe.

“Relax, John!” she laughed, “It’ll hurt like mad if you keep puckering up like that.”

“Be gentle with me,” I begged.

“I promise,” she said as she reached out. Her fingertips trickled down my chest down to my abdomen, and kept heading south until they just barely grazed this tip of my clothed cock, “Lay back. I’ll give you a massage, just to get you nice and loose, and then we’ll get started, ok?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a grin. She started by slowly working up my legs, massaging my calves, rubbing my thighs. It felt good and was working wonders on my nerves. Then she reached my groin and started rubbing my inner thighs. I love that most of all, it feels amazing.

She pulled off my pants and revealed my healthy hard-on. She worked it a bit, in her hand, before asking me to roll over on to my stomach. I was reluctant to let her stop, but when she started massaging my back, I felt all of my tensions fade away.

“You went into the wrong profession,” I groaned.

“You want me doing this to other men?”

“Unh, no, don’t stop.”

Her hands went to my lower back, and I groaned as I sunk my forehead into the mattress.

“That feels amazing,” I told her.

Then her hands ventured further down and on to my bum, cupping the cheeks. She rubbed softly at first, but then starting digging in with her fingertips.

“Here, lift up your hips,” she said. I obliged and she slid a few pillows under me. She continued to fondle and caress my bottom until she asked, “Ready?”

I tensed up, “Ready for what?”

“Alright, Mr Watson, I’m going to touch you now, you might feel a bit of pressure,” she said in her best physician’s voice.

“Ha, ha, very fu...ck,” I said as her two fingers breeched suddenly.

“Breathe,” she told me. I held my head in my hands. It didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would, granted she used lube.

The stretch was uncomfortable, hard to get used to. I moved my hips around, trying to find a better spot, and she pressed in deeper.

“Tell me if it’s too much, ok?” she asked as she bent her fingers.

“Jeeze, Jesus,” I spat as she brushed against my prostate.

“Here, lift your hips up higher,” I got on my knees and she removed a pillow from beneath me and grabbed my cock by the shaft. “Better?” she asked, stroking gently, “A little new, with something familiar?”

“Yeah,” I said with a sigh of relief. The soft, affectionate touch, directed my attention away from the discomfort, and made it all more manageable.

She withdrew her fingers, gave me a firm slap on the ass, and told me to take over. She all but grabbed my hand and placed it on my cock. I gave myself a half-hearted wank, obeying her every command, hoping to God she wouldn’t tear me a new one.

She squirted an exorbitant amount of lube on to the _thing,_ applied a bit more to my arse, I said a prayer, and she lined her sights up for the kill.

As she was pressing it in slowly, I couldn’t help but hold my breath and tense up.

“Relax,” she reminded me, “Stroke yourself.”

In an uncoordinated and feeble attempt to make things right once more, I touched myself as she eased herself slowly into my arse. I made noises I didn’t know I was capable of, as a grown man. I gurgled and squeaked. I made a high pitched whine and spoke a foreign language that to this day I believe originated in the depths of the Amazon. I chanted some mystical charm and I may have even cried a bit.

Mary reached her hand under me and with her well lubed palm, gave me one hell of a hand-job. She started moving behind me, back and forth. I could feel the cold stretch, the strange sensation of being filled, and I pushed against her, wanting more.

She frequently stopped, had to change positions, and move her hands. I was becoming frustrated.

I tried tossing off myself, that didn’t work. I started moving my hips back, grunting, and baring my teeth. She called me a “Pushy bottom.”

Then I just had to stop.

My knees were aching, she was out of breath, and we were both completely spent. We were so knackered, we both curled up and fell asleep, not bothering to get redressed or to take off our new found friend.


	11. Chapter 11

“Ha, morning wood,” I laughed, flicking the fake penis with my finger.

“Eh, funny,” Mary grunted, still half asleep, sprawled out in the middle of the bed, “At least mine’s detachable.”

I sat up and cringed. I was so sore I could hardly get out of bed. Mary laughed as I hobbled a bit to get to the bathroom.

Later on, when she decided to get out of the bed, she was limping around as well.

“I’ve got muscles sore that I didn’t even know existed!” she groaned.

“Yep, It isn’t easy being a man,” I said with a long drawl.

She gave me a look, “You know we can’t go anywhere near Sherlock, he’ll know you took it up the arse last night.”

“And he’ll know it was your idea.”

“He’ll know you liked it.”

“He’ll know you want to be a man!” I shouted.

Mary just let out a puff of air and rolled her eyes, “And you _liked_ it.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

We experimented with it a few more times. We both started getting the hang of things and I was pleased. Then Mary decided to kick it up a notch. Turning the heat up from a simmer, to a rolling boil.

She was actively pounding into me without mercy, we were face to face, and she asked me, “Don’t you wish I were Sherlock?”

I was too far gone to respond, but for a moment I could hear Sherlock’s voice in the back of my head, and for the first time I came with her inside me.

After that moment, Sherlock started creeping into my thoughts, more and more during sex. I started wanting him, craving him even. I wanted it to be real. I wanted to know what it really felt like coming from a man.

 I’d only ever kissed him up until this point and now I wanted to hop into bed with him. Mary kept turning the heat up and up. Then everything came to a head and I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Get Sherlock!”


	12. Chapter 12

 So we thought and we thought and we thought some more, until neither of us could come up with a feasible plan to get Sherlock into bed with us.

“It’s perverted,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.

“It’s wrong,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then it’s settled,” I said with a sigh.

We lay on the floor of our tiny flat with the tops of our heads pressed against each other, like Siamese twins, as if physically putting our heads together would solve anything. I stared up at the ceiling and twiddled my thumbs as I thought as deeply as I could manage.

Mary scooted uncomfortably on the hard floor, “We’ve been through every possible scenario. There is no explanation, which I can think of, that would warrant him to hop into bed with us. I mean we could hire someone to hold a gun to our heads and threaten our livelihood if we don’t have all have sex.”

“He would see straight through that. Besides, it’s completely unrealistic.”

“We could always drug him.”

“Mary!” I scolded.

“Like he hasn’t done it to you before,” she scoffed.

“This is different. This is sensitive, very sensitive, and if we... if I betray his trust, he’ll never forgive me.”

“So, no drugs?”

“We should just forget the whole thing,” I said with a huff as I sat up. Mary continued to lie on the floor and daydream. If anyone could come up with a clever scheme, it was her.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do it; I really did, just to see what it was like. It was killing me not knowing.

“We could get another man,” I offered.

“It has to be Sherlock,” she said firmly.

“Why?”

She rolled over on to her side to regard me, “You don’t trust anyone else.”

“I do,” I said without thinking.

“Like who?”

“Um... I suppose... Bill?” I said, again without thinking.

“Bill Murray?”

“Yeah.”

“The nurse?” she asked with a strange look on her face.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You want to have sex with him?”

“No!” I said in disgust, “I just trust him is all. And I trust Mike too, but I’d never... bleh,” I cringed.

“See, it has to be Sherlock. He’s sexually appealing to you and you trust him,” she said with a nod, “And! He’s your best friend,” she added.

“He won’t be after this,” I said with a heavy sigh.

“Sure he will. Sherlock loves you and he cares about you,” she said with a pout.

I snorted a laugh at the thought of Sherlock caring about anyone other than himself, “Maybe if the whole thing was his idea.”

“John! That’s brilliant!” Mary shouted as she rose to her feet.

“What is?”

“Well, if we made Sherlock think it was his idea to... ‘experiment’ or whatever, he’d jump through hoops to have...” she paused a moment, “It is a bit odd, saying ‘have sex with us’ it makes it sound-“

“Dirty?”

“A bit,” she said, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“How about we say a ‘ménage à trois’? Sounds a bit less perverted.”

“We could say we want to have stronger relations with our dear Sherlock,” she suggested.

“Increase his carnal knowledge?”

“Perfect!” she laughed, “We’d be increasing his _carnal knowledge_.”

“Show him the way around the bedroom,” I added.

“Add to his skill set.”

“He could put it on his CV.”

We both burst into a fit of giggles. It was kind of fun, thinking of ways to fool Sherlock. It helped to vent all the pent up anger I had for all the times he had fooled me.

“What if we staged a fight?” Mary suggested.

“You want to... punch me in the face?”

Mary gave me a firm shove, “No I mean like we’re having a domestic. Only instead of arguing right in front of him, we make it _appear_ as if our relationship has become turbulent.”

“Why would we be fighting?”

“For a number of reasons, but the main one being that we’ve approached stagnation in our relationship... _in the bedroom_ ,” she said with a wry smirk.

“Our relationship has become turbulent because it’s stagnant?”

“Oh, you,” she laughed, pinching my arm, “You know what I mean.”

“So how do we make him believe our love-life is failing?”

“I have a book!” she said excitedly, pulling a thick book off the shelf and handing it to me.

“It weighs more than a newborn child,” I remarked, holding it with some difficulty.

“Turn to the end, there’s a chapter on the signs of a failed marriage.”

“My, this book is depressing,” I said, turning to the end.

“I say we start by dividing the flat in two. You get the sofa,” she said excitedly.

“Wait, why do I get the sofa?”

“The room is mine now.”

“Who says?”

“Sign six, I’m not willing to compromise,” she said in a sing-song voice as she pointed to the spot in the book, “Besides, we need to spend all of our time apart, number one.”

“I suppose I’ll be the partner that completely gives up and you can be overly controlling,” I said without thinking it through.

“That would make sense,” she shrugged.

I breathed a sigh of relief, dodging a major bullet, as she admitted to being a control freak.

“That leaves lack of communication and respect. I think we could pull it off,” she said with a grin.

Just then, out of thin air, I embraced her tightly, “Whatever happens or whatever is said, know that I still love you.”

“Yeah, but you’re still getting the sofa.”


	13. Chapter 13

I could hardly sleep with all the pretend fighting. We had to make it look as convincing as possible, throw enough red herrings and cover our tracks to make Sherlock believe we were falling apart at the seams.

“I think I’ll spend the weekend with Sherlock,” I said, stretching uncomfortably after a long night on the sofa, “Raise suspicions and whatnot.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I’ll leave it vague; make it sound like we need our space.”

“He’ll see you’ve been sleeping on the sofa for the past few days. Maybe you should have a few drinks before going over? Send me some nasty texts?”

“We need a witness.”

“Our neighbours?” she suggested.

“We could have a shouting match, you can slam the door in my face, throw my things out the window.”

“Set fire to your jumpers.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” I said.

We drafted our texts, memorized our lines over breakfast, had a few drinks, and come noon we were having a shouting match at the top of our lungs.

It ended with Mary screaming, “Get out!” and slamming the door in my face. It was then I realized I’d left my phone in the flat.

I thought it through; if I went to Sherlock without having my overnight bag packed or my mobile he’d assume I had left in a hurry. Then he’d see that I had alcohol on my breath and I hadn’t showered or shaved. He’d deduce from my stiff shoulders and neck that I’d been sleeping on the sofa the past few nights and that I hadn’t been allowed into the bedroom to change my clothes for the past two days.

I’d brush it off as nothing; say that we just needed some time apart, guys’ weekend. I might even suggest we visit a pub, have a few drinks. Mary would eventually call Mrs Hudson, who would be nosey, and would inform Sherlock that we’d had an argument.

When Mary would ask for me to come home, I’d refuse the first couple times. Eventually she would have to come over, drop off some clothes, I’d suggest Sherlock be the mediator while I remain locked up in my old room, refusing to see her. We’d drag it out a whole of three days and by the end Sherlock would be at his wit’s end trying to save our would-be marriage.

It was brilliant.

If only Sherlock hadn’t had company that day.

“John,” Mycroft said with his all-too charming smile. He was sitting in my former chair, twirling his umbrella, waiting for Sherlock to be a good little brother and make him tea.

“Mycroft,” I grunted, feeling rather displeased to see his face. His eyes scanned over me quickly, making all the deductions that were meant for Sherlock’s eyes only.

“How’s Mary?” he asked snidely.

“Oh, shut up,” I growled as I stormed off in the opposite direction. Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen just as I was back at the door.

“Did you need something?” Sherlock asked with his head tilted to one side like a confused puppy. Obviously I was sending him mixed signals.

“Never mind,” I growled, “I’ll bother Mrs Hudson.”

“If you need to use the phone-“

“Sherlock, just leave me alone, I don’t even know why I bothered coming here in the first place.”

Both of the Holmes brothers looked equally confused and for a moment in time it looked as if I’d actually fooled them both. I left quickly before I gave myself away.

Mrs Hudson was surprised to see me and insisted on hovering over me while I tried to place the phone call to Mary.

“Do you mind?” I finally asked.

“Of course not,” she said, giving me a few more inches of space but still listening intently. She was never one to miss out on a good bit of gossip.

“Mary, I left my wallet and mobile at the flat do you mind-“

 _“Oh, I know John. I’ll bring em by in the morning with your change of clothes. I’ve got to hang up the phone angrily now, love you, bye!”_ she said in a hurry. I soon heard dead air on the other end as she ended the call.

“She hung up on me,” I said solemnly.

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson cooed, “Sit down, I’ll fix you a cuppa, we can talk _all_ about it,” she said, trying her best to hold back her enthusiasm. She was a gossip junkie in dire need of a good hit. I swear she was shaking with excitement at the prospect of having the one up on Mrs Turner. If Mrs Hudson could weave this into a homoerotic love story, she’d be the queen of the Baker Street biddies.

“No, I think I’ll go for a walk, clear my head a bit,” I said, leaving in a hurry. I looked back to see the disappointed look on Mrs Hudson’s face. I saw her hand slowly move towards the phone and knew she’d have Mrs Turner on the line in a matter of minutes.

News would travel fast and come round to Sherlock in under an hour, so I needed to make ground. Without my wallet it only made sense that I should go to Hyde Park, walk around, and get lost in my thoughts.

I checked my watch several times throughout my walk. Night began to fall and I wondered what was keeping Sherlock.

I found a bench where I waited and watched the ducks swim upside down, searching for food.  The sky filled with bright orange and pink hues as the sun set slowly into the canopy of the trees. It was starting to get cold and I felt tired and hungry, but most of all I felt alone.

Silly as it may sound, I missed Mary. She would have enjoyed a nice evening ramble.

It was already past five and I began to worry that Sherlock wasn’t going to come. I had been out for hours; surely he must have been worried.

The street lamps flickered on and I was still all alone in the middle of the park. It was eerily quiet, even the ducks had cut out their chatter.

I felt a chill run down my spine. My fingers turned to ice. I didn’t like being out in the open, alone, without a phone.

 I got up off the bench and started walking back in the general direction of Baker Street. I listened closely, checking back every once in a while to ensure I wasn’t being followed.

I heard a sound off in the distance, a twig splitting in two. I turned sharply and saw a shadow move behind a large tree.

I kept my eyes trained on the tree, watching for any signs of movement. It was too dark to tell friend from foe so I turned and burst into a full sprint. I soon heard the rustle of leaves and the sound of heavy footfalls behind me.

I looked back over my shoulder every once in a while to see if I could catch a glimpse of my assailant, but the night concealed their identity. From what I could tell it was a man, tall, about six foot, clad in jeans and a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up to hide his face. His trainers were a bright white, quite possibly brand new, hardly broken in at all. I was able to out run him even with my short legs and poor running form.

Once I hit the streets, I started making sharp turns down the alleyways that I was all too familiar with. I lead my assailant down several forks in the road, turning in what I believed to be an unpredictable pattern, only to find the man was still close on my tail.

I had one last resort and that was disappearing completely. If that didn’t throw the man off my scent then there was only one guess as to who the man must be.

Making sure the coast was clear, I ducked into a spot behind Mrs Hudson’s bins and kept absolutely still.

I heard the man breathing heavily, as he walked past the bins. He stopped to catch his breath and I jumped out.

“You bastard!” I shouted.

“I thought you could use a bit of exercise,” Sherlock panted.

“I knew it was you.”

“Then why did you run?” he quipped.

“Just in case it wasn’t!” I shouted, “Talk about out of shape, you’re panting like an old dog.”

“It’s been a while,” he admitted, “Come upstairs. I’ll find you something to eat.”

I followed him inside and up the stairs. In the excitement of things, I nearly forgot that I was pretending to be in the middle of a row with Mary.

Sherlock searched the cupboards and came up empty. He went into the drawer and withdrew a menu for the Thai restaurant down the way.

“You can pay me later,” he said, handing me the phone and menu.

“What would you like?”

He waved his hand in the air and shrugged his shoulders, “Surprise me.”

“Green curry it is.”

“No,” he said with a grimace.

“Yellow?”

“Mm,” he hummed, “Nah.”

“Pad Thai,” I tried.

“Not really in the mood...” he said airily.

“Pizza.”

“Sure, why not?” he said with a grin.

“Give me the menu,” I said, beckoning for it.

“On second thought-“

“Sherlock!” I shouted, “Make up your mind, your worse than Mary,” I laughed.

I spotted a fleeting smirk on Sherlock’s face. He caught me.

“So,” Sherlock said as he took a seat, “Troubles in paradise?”

I stared at him blankly.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he accused.

I refused to say a word to keep from incriminating myself.

“You nearly had me, John.”

I swallowed hard and watched as he stood to circle me like a hawk.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to. I knew it from the moment I saw your socks.”

“Now you’re bluffing,” I said out loud.

“First, you knew from experience that I would be able to deduce that you had been sleeping on the sofa for the past few nights, but in a true fight we both know Mary would opt to sleep over at a friend’s, leaving the bed to yourself. Second, you neglected to shower and shave yet you still managed to have a full breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, orange juice,” he stated, pointing to spots on my face, shirt, and hands, “A breakfast, over which, you leisurely read the morning paper, leaving the print ink on your greasy fingertips. After which you shared a drink with your wife. Vodka and orange juice. Just enough to calm your nerves and lower your inhibitions, but not enough to make you inebriated, because you knew you would have to take public transport to Baker Street later on. Going by the rasp in your voice, you had shouted at one another. Likely so your neighbours could be called upon as witnesses to your feud. Third, you stormed out without your phone and wallet but still managed to grab the key off the hook, subconsciously knowing that you would be returning in a few days’ time. You noticed right away that you had forgotten your phone but decided that returning to the flat would blow your cover, so you moved on. Of course I was apt to believe you when you first walked in, but once I saw your socks, I knew you were trying to mislead me.”

“My socks? My socks are what gave it all away?” I asked in disbelief.

“A man in a true hurry never takes the time to put on his socks, John. It’s elementary.”

I gritted my teeth and let out a slow breath through my nose.

“What logical explanation would there be to explain why you and Mary would go through the pains of trying to deceive me?” he thought to himself.

“Sherlock, stop. Just forget about it.”

“I’m not one to forget so easily.”

“Earth, sun,” I said, pointing to the sky making a circling motion with my index finger.

“Don’t distract me from my endeavours,” Sherlock said as he held up a hand and shut his eyes.

I debated sneaking out while he visited his mind palace.

“John likes you, he cares about you, if you need anything, anything at all... the drinks... The drinks,” he repeated, “Lowering inhibitions.”

“Sherlock,” I said, trying to bring him out of it.

“No, no, I’m almost there. Sexy panties, flirting under the table, dinner dates, snogging, can I get you a drink? Can I get you drink? Here have a drink,” Sherlock’s eyes shot open, “Of course!” he shouted.

I watched intently as he started pacing the floor, nervously biting his thumb.

“These are all the classical signs,” he said with a shuddered breath.

“Signs of what?”

“Signs of a threeway.”


	14. Chapter 14

“We need ground rules,” I told Mary.

“So he’ll do it?” she asked.

“First, condoms, at all times.”

“But he’s going to do it?” she asked once more.

“Second, we’ll need a safe word... Vatican Cameos, I don’t foresee any of us shouting that in the heat of the moment.”

“So he said yes?”

“Third, I don’t want him all over you, leaving me left out and vice versa.”

“John!” she groaned and slumped into a heap on the sofa, “What did he say?”

“He’s considering it.”

“No way!” she shouted, sitting up straight, “How did you manage after you blew our cover?”

“I blew our cover?”

“I told you not to wear socks,” she said with a shrug.

“You! You never!”

“It’s all in the past, sweet heart. Now let’s talk sex,” she said excitedly, “Should we put some mood lighting in the room?”

“Mary... can we worry about decor later? I want to make sure nobody gets hurt and that we know what to expect.”

“With Sherlock? We should expect the unexpected!”

Mary was overflowing with excitement and wanted to know when.

“When?” she asked for the millionth time.

“Calm down, he’ll text me when he comes to a decision.”

“But when?” she begged.

I grabbed both sides of her face, looked her in the eyes, and told her, “I love you, now shut up,” as I pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“How are you not the least bit nervous?” she asked with an aggravated moan.

Just then, my phone began buzzing off the counter. I caught it just before it fell. It continued to vibrate as I checked over the messages Sherlock had sent.

“Oh my God,” I said.

“What! What?” Mary asked, glancing over my shoulder.

“He said yes... on twenty-nine conditions,” I stared at the long list of requests Sherlock had written:

1)      No video or audio recording

2)      No third parties

3)      No bondage

4)      No weapons

5)      No whips, chains, or leather, excluding John’s pants

6)      No pubic hair

7)      No blood, urine, or excrement

8)      No fetish clothing, excluding John’s pants

9)      No choking, slapping, hitting, punching, or bodily harm of any sort

10)   No animals

11)   No food

12)   No smoking

13)   All forms of oral sex are permitted, except rimming

14)   All activities must be limited to the bedroom

15)   All participants are required to use some form of antiperspirant and utilize proper personal hygiene practices

16)   All participants must be present or otherwise express their permission for the remaining two to continue without their supervision

17)   All participants must submit to testing for STIs, once quarterly

18)   All proceedings will be kept private

19)   All curtains must be drawn closed and all doors locked

20)   Use of recreational drugs and performance enhancers are strictly forbidden

21)   If an emergency should arise in the middle of the act, “we were practicing Brazilian jiu-jitsu”

22)    Under no circumstances shall any participant say the word, “baby”

23)   Outside of the bedroom the participants are expected to behave as they would normally

24)   If this practice in any way impedes the wedding, it will be called off immediately

25)   A journal will be kept, cataloguing the proceedings for further interpretation and future use

26)   Pillow talk will be kept to a minimum as will the use of vulgarities

27)   All participants must achieve orgasm and/or be satisfied sexually in order for the congress to come to a close

28)   Sleeping arrangements will be made post-coitus and will depend on the comfort/energy level of the participants

29)   No strap-on devices or prosthetic phalluses will be permitted

“Oh, that’s not fair,” Mary complained as we came to the end of the list.

“I don’t see any problems. He pretty much stated the obvious.”

“But no strap-on?” she asked, obviously disappointed.

“We’ll just use it when we’re alone.”

Mary considered it and moped around the kitchen for a while before agreeing to Sherlock’s terms.

“So that’s it,” I said in disbelief, “A month ago I would have never thought in a million years...”

“Don’t over think it,” she said, holding my hand firmly, “It’s going to be an adventure and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t at least give it a try.”

“I know,” I said, feeling more than a twinge of doubt.

It gave me no relief having everything out in the open. Now Sherlock knew that I wanted to do things with him, sexually.

Experiment, that was the way to put it. It was just an experiment.

Mary and I abstained from sex until the ‘big night’ so to speak. We had a fair amount of time before the wedding and were ahead in planning, whatever that meant. So we called together a meeting at Baker Street.

“I’m fine if nothing happens tonight,” I repeated to myself on the train ride over. “We’re just going to relax and see what happens, aren’t we?” I looked to Mary for reassurance.

“We’re going to sit there in awkward silence until you crack a joke and we both laugh nervously while Sherlock stares at us.”

“Maybe we should go home,” I said, letting my head sink into my shaking hands.

“We can’t back out now,” Mary said, grabbing me by my shoulders and giving me a firm squeeze, “We owe it to ourselves and Sherlock.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“We’re doing this,” Mary insisted.

She all but dragged me through Baker Street station, up on to Baker Street, and to the front door of 221-B.

We rang the door and Sherlock answered just as he had promised. Mrs Hudson was away at her sister’s for the weekend, not that we planned to stay the whole weekend.

With every step, my heart began racing faster and faster until the point I felt as if it was going to leap out of my chest. I began seeing spots and nearly collapsed on the stairs. If Sherlock wasn’t there to catch my fall, that would have been the end of the night. He reached out his hand, and I took it. I was completely blinded by my desire and felt faint as he led me into the flat.

I must have blanked out because the next thing I remember, I was sitting on the sofa with a drink in hand in complete shock. Sherlock stood in the corner with his violin, violently hacking away, while Mary sat in my former chair, her leg jumping up and down, as she struggled to swallow her drink.

We were all nervous and rightfully so. None of us had ever attempted anything like this before and it felt as if all three of our relationships hinged on the evening being a success.

I was at my breaking point when Sherlock stopped abruptly.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said in a tone that turned my heart to ice. He walked directly into the bedroom without giving either of us a passing glance.

“Should we follow him?” I whispered to Mary. She was clearly apprehensive.

I stood and walked over to her to extend a helping hand. She took it reluctantly and I led her by the hand to the bedroom where Sherlock was pouring some greenish fluid out of a decanter.

“Absinthe?” I asked.

“My own concoction,” he elaborated, “Mostly ethanol.”

“Mostly?” I asked as he handed me my drink. I held it up to the light and swirled it around a bit, noticing the pieces of un-dissolved who knows what.  

“Think of it as an aphrodisiac,” he said with a flirtatious grin that I wasn’t aware he was capable of.

Without a second thought, I knocked back the drink, and swallowed hard. It tasted like bitter liquorice and went down like fire with a peppermint aftertaste. I smacked my lips together and swallowed a few times, trying to get the taste out of my mouth.

“What happened to the ban on performance answers?” Mary asked, holding the drink up to her nose, “What did you put in this?”

“In short, vitamin E, zinc, arginine, N-acetyl cysteine, Beta-carotene, vitamin C, liver, raw oysters, garlic, chocolate, honey, ginseng...” he took a pause to take a shot, “Oh! And a drop of deer penis concentrate,” he added with a smirk, “Which I made myself.”

I turned the same shade of green as the vile liquid.

“Okay, but what’s really in it?” Mary asked with a stern gaze. She never liked it when Sherlock fibbed.

“Absinthe and Sildenafil. It’s completely safe for women and shows an improvement in their sexual experience as well,” Sherlock poured another shot and knocked it back quickly, “Okay!” he shouted as he clapped his hands together, “Where do you want me?” We both looked at him dumbly as he took a seat on the edge of the bed, “Neither of you bothered to research this,” he pointed out.

Surely I had seen enough pornography in my lifetime featuring threesomes, but almost always they involved two girls.  

“Never mind, I’ve bookmarked my favourites,” he said, pulling his laptop out from under the bed.

Intrigued, I walked over to take a seat next to him while Mary continued to swirl her drink around and look around the room. Sherlock brought up a tabbed browser full of porn. I felt a stirring in my groin just looking at all the naked women.

“They all start relatively the same, orally,” he said, flipping through them rapidly.

“Hold on,” I said steadying his hand, “That one.”

“Just because the actors have the same hair colour-“

“Shut up,” I said, settling in to watch.

“What are you boys doing?”

“Research,” we said in unison. We scooted back to the head of the bed with the laptop and placed it between us while we watched a masterful busty blonde suck off two guys at once. Sherlock offered me another drink and I knocked it back quickly, handing the empty glass to Mary who sat around waiting.

“Honey, watch,” I said giving her arm a half-hearted tug.

“I prefer the real thing.”

The cocktail set in and I felt a strange mix of arousal and sedation. I noticed my breathing pattern was getting heavier but Sherlock’s was remaining relatively the same. I reached out to brush my fingertips over his hand and his breath hitched.

“From there it moves on to erm... vaginal intercourse and of course... anal,” Sherlock said, struggling to blink as I looked deeply into his eyes. He searched my face and looked at me with confusion, “Do you want to make out?”

“Yeah, we probably should,” I chuckled. I slowly closed the laptop and Sherlock put it off to one side. All three of us were in bed together, the hard part was over. Now the fun could begin.


	15. Chapter 15

It started when Sherlock and I became absorbed in a kiss. He cradled my face in his hands and actively tried to suck my tongue out of my mouth. He was powerful and demanding, yet unskilled and needy. He let out a whimper and leaned further into the kiss.

I pushed him back and he let out a gasp.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I told him. He leaned forward once more and gently pressed his lips against mine, changing his methods entirely. It was as if I was kissing a different person all together. Instead of grabbing my face and snogging me senseless, he was slow and deliberate, patient and attentive.

I jolted when Mary touched my shoulder.

Sherlock pulled away abruptly and stared at me with wide eyes as Mary started undoing my belt and unzipping my trousers. I noticed Sherlock’s eyes wander down to my pants. They were the bright red ones he had picked out first. I didn’t want to frighten him with leather, this being our first time.

Sherlock sat, watching Mary fish me out of my pants. His breathing was laboured and his eyes were glazed over in lust. Mary reached out towards his crotch and Sherlock flinched.

“Relax,” she said soothingly. She placed her palm on Sherlock’s inner thigh and gave it a slight squeeze. “Watch John,” she told him.

I was already hard by the time she pulled me out of my pants. After working off her own trousers and underwear, she went down on me and Sherlock watched with intrigue as she sucked me off.

I summoned him closer so we could resume our kiss. He was far more tense than he was before. I opened my eyes to see he was keeping one eye on Mary at all times.

“It feels great,” I told him breathlessly. I could tell from his body language that he wasn’t so sure, “What if I did it to you?”

Sherlock sat up on to his knees, unzipped his trousers, and pulled them off smoothily, along with his underwear. He threw them off to the side and started working on unbuttoning his shirt.

I came face to face with his prick once more and licked my lips in thought. Before I could back out, I grabbed him by his shaft and placed the head of his cock into my mouth.

Next thing I knew, he had his hand on the back of my head and was trying to force me down on it.

I heard a loud audible thwack as Mary slapped Sherlock on the thigh followed by, “Down boy.”

Sherlock let go of me momentarily and I watched as he and Mary had a staring competition.

Then Sherlock did the unthinkable. He lay down on his side, lifted Mary’s leg, and began going to town, eating her out. I was too shocked to think even as Mary wrapped her lips around my cock once more.

We lay in a triangle, where Sherlock kept inching forward, nudging his leg against the top of my head, begging me to continue. I couldn’t believe he was face deep in my fiancée’s pussy. And they were enjoying it. Mary was groaning so loud she could hardly keep her mouth on my prick.

Then Sherlock kneed me impatiently and I decided I’d show him. I’d make him moan so loud, I’d tear down his mind palace walls.

I swallowed him whole, pressed my fingers against his perineum, and revelled in his immediate response. I pressed deeper and his hips jerked. Then I slid my finger into his hole and the rest was history.

Sherlock came with a yelp. His whole body tensed as he gasped for air.

“John,” Mary scolded. She pulled away completely and looked Sherlock over. His face was a deep shade of purple and he looked as if he was trying to speak but couldn’t form the words.

He sputtered a cough as he rolled over on to his belly.

“You’re supposed to take it easy,” Mary complained.

Sherlock rose on to all fours, only to have his chest fall on to the mattress once more.

“God, fuck me,” he pleaded.

When his chest hit the mattress and I saw his arse rise into the air, I felt the wind get knocked out of me. He was a thing of sheer beauty, completely spent and begging for more.

I wanted more than anything to comply with his demands. He keened at my touch as I ran my hands down his sides. I ran my hands back up, feeling the curvature of his spine, and bringing my palms to rest on his pert bottom. He arched his back further and curled his toes in anticipation. I shuddered from head to toe. And in that moment it felt as if we were the only two souls in the universe.

Mary cleared her throat and I snapped back into reality.

“Top drawer on the right,” Sherlock said disinterestedly, “If you’re looking to participate.”

“No, it looks like you two have it well covered,” Mary’s lips were pressed into a thin line. She had her eyebrows raised, daring me to say something stupid.

“Do you, uh, erm... uh,” I offered.

Mary slid off the bed, slid open the nightstand drawer, grabbed the lubricant, and threw it at us. She walked over to Sherlock’s chair and seated herself across the room.

I sat on my knees, staring at her dumbly. She had that look on her face, the one women get when they’re so angry that they’re ‘not angry’ and you had better not say they’re angry because then they’ll really be angry.

Now was not the time to coddle and ask her _‘what’s wrong, baby?’_ We were past the point of no return. Sherlock and I had already dug our grave five feet deep and it was only inches to go before we hit rock bottom, so I went for it.

I popped the cap off the lube, liberally applied it to my middle and ring finger on my right hand, and started working Sherlock open. The moment my fingers slid into his arse, he was a mess.

He cradled his head in his hands and rocked back and forth against my fingers, making me crave him. I wanted to be buried inside him. I needed him and he needed me. I was filled with carnal desire.

I gripped his hips firmly and steadied him as I lined up. I had only just pressed the head of my cock against his entrance before he started moaning loudly. I grabbed a pillow and placed it within his reach. He took the hint and balled the pillow in his fists and bit down to stifle his grunts and moans.

He was loud, deliciously loud, as I sunk in and seated myself fully in his arse. If it weren’t for the pillow we would have surely woken the neighbours. He remained tense for the first few tentative thrusts, but loosened up as we established a rhythm.

I knew what I liked, a smooth rhythm with the occasional jab. Nothing too intense, not until the end.

I decided to switch things up a bit, made him collapse his hips and lay flat on the bed. This was my favourite position with Mary on top of me. I lay flush against him, embracing him as I gave him a series of shallow thrusts.

I lay the side of my face against his warm back and closed my eyes. I was in no hurry, intent on making it last as long as possible. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like the other way around.

I could hear every beat of his heart and every breath he took. I wanted him to know I wasn’t going anywhere and I wasn’t about to let him go either.

We’d never been so intimate.

And it wasn’t because I was balls deep in his arse. We were having a moment: two bodies transcending through space and time, momentarily forgetting object permanence, and soon forgetting about life all together.

I let out a content sigh, ran my hand across the back of his hand, and laced my fingers in his.

I was content to fall asleep just like that, if only I hadn’t spooked and screamed, “Vatican Cameos! Vatican Cameos!” as the riding crop came crashing down on my left buttock.

I pulled out quickly and was halfway across the room before I could even begin to register what had happened.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” Mary said, holding the tail end of the crop to Sherlock’s chin, “My turn.”

“Why do we even have a list?” Sherlock said with a huff as he rolled on to his back.

Mary whipped the mattress beside his head and Sherlock didn’t even flinch. He looked at Mary with what could only be described as unabashed longing.

Confused by the turn of the events, I kept my distance. My bottom was still stinging from the whip and I didn’t know who to trust at this point.

Sherlock slid himself to the edge of the bed and hung his head off the side.

“John take note,” Mary said as Sherlock spread her legs once more. He licked her with skilled precision; he practically worshipped her.

She dragged the crop’s tip across his abdomen. Clearly he was excited by this. He began fingering her and licking more enthusiastically.

She raised the crop ever so slightly and Sherlock tensed for a moment.

Now, I’m not a psychologist, but I believe what happened next was deliberate. Sherlock wanted that damned crop, he wanted to be punished, so he stopped. The crop gave him a quick warning flick and he gave one teasing lick before it came down with force on his lower abdomen.

I cringed and felt a pain fire up my shins just from the sound of it, but Sherlock let out a loud erotic moan that was indescribably haunting.  He was getting off on this.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to be taking note of. There was no way I was going to suddenly have Sherlock’s gifted tongue. He was able to take Mary from zero to one-hundred in a millisecond. She was approaching orgasm from just standing there.

“John, here, now,” she said, forcing herself to pull away, “Let’s get what we came for.”

I scuttled over, tentatively. Mary became impatient and dragged me over to sit beside Sherlock.

“Sit up,” she commanded and Sherlock rolled over to sit up. We both sat with our hands in our laps, sitting hip to hip, awaiting further instruction, “I didn’t come here to get left out,” she said, pacing with the crop, slapping it into her hand, making me cringe. She began unbuttoning her shirt and shrugging it off her shoulders, “Now I want you, on top of me, and him on top of you, got it?” she asked me.

I nodded, mouth agape. I probably would have agreed to anything with that whip pointed at my nose.

“Sherlock, be good,” she said, giving him a harsh slap on the thigh. Sherlock had a twinkle in his eye; I knew he’d be anything but. The two of them had a score to settle.

“Eyes front, hands behind your backs,” she commanded as she fell to her knees, “Sherlock, if you force me down on you I will kill you and make it look like an accident.”

“Given the state of Scotland Yard these days, no doubt you could.”

His little quip earned _me_ a slap on the inner thigh. Not wanting to be Sherlock’s whipping boy, I nudged him deep in the ribs with my elbow.

“What was that? I think John would like another, ma’am,” Sherlock said with a wry smirk.

“We could always go home,” Mary shrugged. Sherlock mumbled something and Mary ignored him entirely as she started working both of us at the same time with her hands.

She started with me first, running her tongue up and down my shaft.

Sherlock sighed a heavy sigh, “You’re doing it wrong,” he grumbled.

“So now you’re an expert?” Mary asked. I wasn’t sure if she was acting or what was going on but she had me by the bollocks and I wasn’t about to chime in.

“In all things oral, yes,” Sherlock said, looking down at her defiantly, “And you’re going about it all wrong.”

“I know how to suck cock.”

“You never attended public school, move over,” he said, pushing her aside with his leg, “I’ll show you,” he said, getting down on his knees in front of me, “It’s all in the way you work the glans.”

Then Sherlock did something that nearly sent me through the roof. He pinched his fingertips together, held them above the head of my cock, and then slowly sprawled his fingers out, ghosting them across my skin. I felt chills all over as it made my skin crawl, but when I tried to pull away, Sherlock had me by my hips.

“You need to know where to place your tongue,” he continued.

“I know where to place my tongue,” Mary retorted.

“No you don’t,” Sherlock said leaning forward to show her how it’s down. His stiff tongue slowly circled around the head of my cock, right under the crown, before reaching the fraenulum. Then with just the tip of his tongue, he barely flicked it. I lurched forward, gripping on to his shoulders for support. He did it again, only this time he rapidly flicked his tongue on the same spot, exciting it over and over again; I nearly lost it.

“Now, isn’t that simple?” he asked.

“Oh, watch and learn,” she said, pulling him up by the elbow until he was standing in front of her.

“What are you...”

Sherlock was truly surprised when Mary grabbed him by the base of his cock, and swallowed him to the root. Sherlock enjoyed it immensely.  

“God, John. She’s better than you,” he remarked with a shocked gasp as she pressed her nose to his groin. He closed his eyes and threw his head back.

I would have been outraged by his offhanded comment but in that moment the lines of his neck and torso were so awe inspiring; Sherlock looked like a masterpiece. He was so raw and exposed that it scared me how vulnerable he was. How we all were in that bedroom.

Mary pulled away with a pop and stroked Sherlock languidly.

Sherlock looked down briefly, “I take back what I said.”

“Good,” Mary said with a grin, “Shall we?”

Sherlock gave her a small nod to continue. Mary crawled back onto the bed, fluffed the pillows, and sprawled out in the middle of the bed.

“Missionary,” she told me. I decided it was in my best interest not to argue and crawled over to mount her.

We exchanged a brief kiss and she reached under to glide me into position. Her warm wet heat enveloped my cock and felt the same as it ever does, amazing. We began moving, while I kept Sherlock in the back of my mind. Everything was so surreal at this point.

His hand touched my back softly and the feeling was electric. I knew what was coming next and yet I couldn’t adequately prepare myself for it.

I closed my eyes and felt his fingertips, slick with lube, toying with my entrance. I licked my lips in anticipation. Sherlock leaned in close, his hot breath tickled the back of my neck, making my hair stand on end. He laid the side of his face between my shoulder blades, much like I had done to him earlier.

He waited and I found myself waiting with him. I stopped and breathed with him.

Then he started pressing his way in. It hurt, at first. The stretch was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Chills ran up and down my spine. My mind blanked and soon I forgot everything that wasn’t Sherlock.

He pushed forward and I slid into Mary. I nearly collapsed. It was so much to take in. He immediately started moving faster and in turn Mary started moaning. She lifted her hips higher to wrap her legs around me bringing her feet to rest on Sherlock’s sides.

It took me a moment to realize she was kicking at Sherlock’s sides, like a horse, signalling for him to speed up. Soon I was having my brains fucked out and Mary, the terminal acceptor, was begging for more.

Sherlock couldn’t keep up with the demand after fucking like a march hare. He resorted to screwing me like a cork. He ground into me with all his weight and twisted and snapped his hips with such force I couldn’t see straight.

It was indescribable, the difference a real man makes. His warmth and weight on top of me were irreplaceable.

Unfortunately he was rapidly sending me over the edge and there was no coming down from my high. I tried to make some warning sound but it came out like a crow’s caw.

“Caw-ming,” I warned. My balls tensed as I jerked forward, feeling my seed spew from me at Mach 5. There was no taking it back at that point. I let out a low grunt followed by a long sigh, followed by an, “Oh, shit.”

Sherlock stopped, I pulled out of Mary, and he pulled out of me.

“I didn’t finish,” Mary said with a look in her eyes that I had never seen before. She looked... frightened.

I looked back to see Sherlock was panting heavily, there were beads of sweat on his chest.

“John,” it didn’t sound like a question, more of a move aside.

“Sure,” I replied anyway.

I watched.

I don’t know what else I could have done. I was well spent and we’d agreed to it.

Mary placed her calves on Sherlock’s shoulders, he slid in with ease, and they fucked, right there in front of me.

Mary played with herself with her eyes closed, muttering, “John,” under her breath. Her mouth hung wide open. She started making faces as she approached her climax.

Then with a loud, “Oh,” she came. The room was suddenly calm, with only the sounds of heavy breathing filling the air.

All motion ceased, but I noticed Sherlock wince, ever so slightly, as he pulled out.


	16. Chapter 16

I’ll never know if it was Mary’s true intention to have a child by two fathers, but it happened, and neither of us have ever brought ourselves to have our daughter tested. Though I have seen the temptation in Sherlock’s eyes, every time she does something remotely Holmesian. I’ve also noticed, from time to time, the sorry look in his eyes whenever he thinks that she might be his.

Then again, how much of a child’s personality is nature and how much is nurture?

So what if my daughter is a pyromaniac that won’t take no for an answer? So what if she has an addictive personality? And so what if she has curly hair and green eyes? She also has my smile, my laugh, my blonde hair, and my short stature.

She looks more like Mary than anyone else. It’s only when her strong personality seeps through that we begin to worry.

Mary had always been quick to point out something about her that reminds her of me or Sherlock.

“John, look, she’s doing that thing again. That thing you do.”

“What thing?” I asked, putting down the morning paper.

“You know that look that you get when Sherlock says something that’s way over your head,” she said excitedly. I furrowed my brows and my lips quirked ever so slightly, giving her a confused look, “Yeah! That’s the one!”

“What are you going on about?”

“She has _that look_ ,” Mary said, pointing towards our daughter who was on the floor staring at her shape sorter.

“Everyone has _that look_.”

“Oh come on, John. It’s spot on,” she complained, “Have you ever seen that look on Sherlock’s face?”

I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Sherlock rarely, if ever, looked that confused for that long. He usually covered it up with cold indifference if he didn’t know how something worked.

Just then, my daughter gave up on the toy and refused to look at it any longer. Instead she crawled under the coffee table and rolled over on her back to stare at its underside.

“What is under there that is so fascinating?” I asked with a heavy sigh. She had been irrevocably drawn to the underside of the coffee table ever since she learned how to crawl, “There’s nothing under there!”  

“Perhaps she needs a quiet place to put her thoughts together.”

“Oh God, she’s probably building her mind palace as we speak,” I said with a sad laugh, “We’re doomed. She’ll have outsmarted us by age four.”

Just then, Sherlock burst through the door unannounced.

“Where is she?” he asked, his booming voice echoed throughout the house.

“Sher-“ I started before he found the baby under the coffee table, scooped her up, and placed her on his hip and tried to leave with her out the front door.

“Whoa, where do you think you’re going?”

“Borrowing the baby,” Sherlock said, trying to walk through me.

“You can’t borrow her.”

“Need I remind you, she’s one-third mine, but I thought I’d spare you the agony and borrow the whole baby instead.”

“Borrow her for what?” I asked incredulously.

“Case, John, weren’t you paying attention?”

I reached out for my daughter, trying to gently pry her from his grip, “No, Sherlock.”

He twisted away from me and kept her out of arms reach, “It will only be for a few hours.”

Mary was already packing a bag full of nappies and bottles for Sherlock to take with him.

“Did you know about this?” I asked Mary.

“No,” she said with a shrug, “Free babysitter,” she said with a smile, “Here you go, Sherlock,” she said, handing him the bag and giving him and the baby a peck on the cheek.

I followed Sherlock out the door and down the stairs.

“I take it you’ll be joining me?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“You’re mad if you think I’d let you take our daughter out on a case alone.”

“She’s heavy,” Sherlock said, turning to hand her off to me.

“It was your idea.”

“I didn’t know she would weigh so much.”

“You pick her up every day, how...”

Sherlock continued to nudge me with the baby, forcing her into my arms. I took her in fear he’d drop her if I didn’t.

“Where are we going?”

“The day nursery first,” Sherlock said, striding out in front to open the car door for himself. He sat in the passenger seat and waited for me to buckle our daughter into her safety seat.

“What’s at the day nursery?” I asked, turning to him.

“Hopefully a care giver competent enough to take care of my child, now get in the car,” he growled.

I got in quickly and turned on the ignition, “You said you needed her for the case.”

“No, I need _you_ for the case,” he explained as we pulled out on to the street.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Sherlock smiled. He placed a discreet hand on my thigh and gave it a firm squeeze.

I looked back briefly to see our daughter staring up at us.

“I’ve already toured the facility. They were the only one with an adequate amount of security measures in place and a curriculum that I agree with.”

“She’s not even a year old,” I reminded him.

“By now I was walking,” he said, looking back at her pointedly, as if to remind her that she should be ashamed that she wasn’t performing up to par, “She needs peer modelling, something I didn’t have as a child.”

Sherlock removed his hand from my thigh, “If she’s going to be ruler of the free world-“

“Sherlock, she’ll learn in her own time,” I assured him.

“Yes and we’re just giving her that extra little push.”

“Many children don’t walk until they’re nearly eighteen months, it isn’t-“

“She’s physically capable of bipedal locomotion, she’s just stubborn.”

“Like someone I know,” I grumbled.

“She’s exactly like you,” he remarked.

We drove in silence to the day nursery. I pulled up to the Tudor style house and felt extreme apprehension. Sherlock picked up on it immediately.

“She’ll be safe,” he assured me, placing a hand on my shoulder. He stepped out of the car and went into the back to unbuckle our daughter.

I sat, biting at my thumbnail in worry, “What if she doesn’t like it?” I asked, “What if she cries for us?”

“She’s always crying, what’s the difference?” he scoffed as he picked her up.

I rushed to get out of the car and catch up with him. A staff member was already waiting outside to greet us.

“Mr Holmes, pleasure to see you again,” she said brightly, “This must be little Sherlock,” she said with a squeal of delight.

“She’s a girl,” Sherlock said, handing the baby off to the woman.

“Thank goodness,” she cooed, “What with that pretty bow in your hair,” she said, straightening her headband.

“Her mother insists she wear them,” Sherlock said with a disgruntled sigh.

“And you are?” the woman asked me.

“John Watson, he’s my partner,” Sherlock answered for me.

The woman just smiled, “Okay,” she said, obviously in discomfort.

“We’re both her father,” Sherlock explained.

“Sherlock,” I said, nudging him.

“That’s... great,” she said, turning to take Sherlock junior into the building.

The first thing I spotted was the security camera, followed by the finger-print entry system.

“Where’s the guard tower?” I whispered to Sherlock jokingly.

“They have an armed guard on site,” he whispered back.

“Who-“

The woman turned around and smiled at us and I shut my mouth. My first thought was who would need a security guard at a children’s day nursery?

Then an even more horrifying thought struck me. We weren’t sneaking into a high security day nursery to kidnap anyone’s child, were we?

I looked to Sherlock for an answer but he looked ahead, pretending not to notice my worried gaze.

The woman swiped her badge at the door and led us into the ‘classroom’. There were five other tots around Sherly’s age, some crawling, one or two walking.

Sherly burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked.

“Don’t patronize her,” Sherlock scolded, reaching out for his daughter, “She’s never seen another child her age before,” he said, taking her away. He walked her around the room and bounced her on his hip, trying to calm her down, but with every distraction he pointed out, she kept looking back to see other children in the room.

“She’s afraid we’re going to leave her,” I tried to explain.

“No, her small world has just collapsed, knowing children other than herself exist,” he insisted, “Sh,” he hushed, “I know, I was scared too when I met my first child.”

Sherlock stopped coddling her and held her out at arm’s length, “You must be brave,” he told her as he placed her gently on the floor. She cried out for him and reached up, begging him to take her with him.

Sherlock turned abruptly and strolled out the door confidently, dragging me along with him.

I could hear her screaming the moment we left, followed by, “Dada!”

“She’s trying to manipulate us, use our emotions against us,” Sherlock said, briskly walking away from the room.

I tried my best to keep up with him as he walked hurriedly through the corridor, “She’s just upset... are you crying?” I asked

“No,” he said, indignantly wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

“We could go back and get her,” I offered.

“No, it’s fine,” he said with a sniffle, “We all knew there’d come a day...” he let out a heavy sigh.

“Sherlock... pull yourself together, it’s a day nursery,” I laughed, feeling a bit emotional myself.

“I’d feel better if Mary was standing guard.”

“I’m sure the security guard is an adequate marksman,” I assured him.

“John, stop me, I’m turning back,” he said, trying to return to the classroom. I turned him around and ushered him to the door.

“She’ll be fine,” I grunted, trying to shove him through the front door.

“What if the other children are cruel to her?”

“They’re just babies!”

“How can we be sure, John?” his voice quivered as he asked, “Oh, wait,” he stopped abruptly and pulled out his mobile, “They have an app.”

“What?”

“To see inside the classroom.”

I watched intently as he pulled up the application and our daughter’s room came into view.

“No audio,” he cursed.

“Aw, she looks happy,” I remarked.

“What?” he asked, aghast, “She was only crying a moment ago!” he shouted, “This makes no sense!”

“She’s fine.”

“We left her with a complete stranger and she’s somehow fine with this?” he shouted, “Every morning I leave her alone with you two and she cries hysterically.”

“And then she’s fine not five minutes later.”

“What?” Sherlock’s face dropped and he regarded me mournfully.

“What did you think she did all day? Waited around until you got home?”

Sherlock looked down at the mobile on his hand, “I suppose I never thought of it.”

“She has a life outside of you, you know,” I said, suddenly feeling bothered by his belief that the world revolved around him.

“I am her life!” he shouted, “Her first smile, her first word, I’m the first person she sees every morning... you can’t tell me I’m not important to her.”

“You are,” I said in disbelief.

“Then what are you trying to say?” he growled, “That she can get along fine without me?”

“It’s not that at all. She’d miss you terribly if you went away for longer than an afternoon.”

“I’m not replaceable, you know,” Sherlock turned away from me and stormed towards the car. He got in and slammed the door shut.

I opened the driver side door and slid in, “She’s a baby. She has the attention span of a peanut. Cut her some slack.”

“No, you want me to give _you_ a break,” he scowled.

“Just because she loves other people doesn’t mean she loves you any less,” I assured him.

Sherlock let out a deep breath, “I feel we’re drifting apart.”

“She’s a baby.”

“You and me,” he spat out.

“Oh,” I said, truly surprised.

“How could you not _feel_ it? There’s something different between us.”

“You’re more open now about your feelings?”

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, dismissing the notion that he might be more human.

“How can we be drifting apart? We share the same bed.”

“I want you back at Baker Street,” he said suddenly.

I was taken aback, “Just me?”

“No you idiot,” he said with disgust, “All of you.”

“Mary’s never-“

“Shut up,” he said as he turned away and buckled his seat belt, “Just drive.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere, I need to clear my head of all these... _feelings_ ,” he groaned.

We drove to the outskirts of London, until the buildings disappeared and all we could see was the open road and the rolling countryside.

Sherlock curled up and placed his head against the window, glowering at the world. I kept my eyes fixed on the road that lie ahead.

“Sherlock, there was never any case, was there?”

“Drive,” he mumbled as he pulled his coat up to cover his ears.

I don’t know why, but it was a moment that stuck with me for years. The way the light shined through the car window and illuminated the stitch work on his coat. The way he started to drift off into a gentle slumber, with his mouth half open and his face pressed against the glass. The way his mouth twitched into a smile, much like little Sherly’s did when she was fast asleep.

Some might say he was incredibly vulnerable in his position. His heart was suddenly always on the line. There was more to his life than himself for once.

However, I’d seen him at his most vulnerable and surprisingly it didn’t scare me one bit to know that Sherlock cared.

I had seen his raw unbridled beauty. He was something magnificent. No one, not even Mary, could have seen Sherlock like I did. Like I still do.

I wrote this for myself. Even if I don’t share it with another soul, it will serves as a constant reminder of how I came to fall in love with Sherlock in a whole new way.

And I have Mary to thank for that.

May she rest in peace.


End file.
